Seasons of Our Lives
by upfrombelow94
Summary: FIONA/STEVIE. Fiona and Stevie discover that their affinity for each other goes beyond friendship. The realization of their feelings is compromised by obstacles from the women's haunting past and present, such as addiction, lies, sickness and fear. LAST CHAPTER IS ONLINE.
1. Reflections

**Seasons of Our Lives**

\- This is set right after episode 10, "The Magical Delights of Stevie Nicks," when Stevie finished playing "Has Anyone Ever Written Anything For You." The episode ended with Stevie on the piano and an emotionally-exhausted Fiona on a chair, listening to Stevie. There will also be appearances from Myrtle Snow, Cordelia and some other people living in the house. -

A/N

Dear all,

I am rather new to the AHS hype but that does not make my enthusiasm any less. Fiona Goode — and Jessica Lange, obviously — is one of my favorite characters; I find her fascinating. Coven has also caused my rediscovery of Fleetwood Mac and as a consequence, my obsession with Stevie Nicks. While listening to a disproportionately large amount of FM songs and still being captured by both Jessica's and Stevie's spirit and their fondness for each other (both on and off-screen), I was in dire need of a reason to bring them together. If not in real life, then at least in the fictional world.

I am not quite sure where I am going with this fic yet. However, as one of my favorite songs is _Landslide_ , I intend to make this a Landslide-themed fic (as you may have noticed from the fic and chapter title). Though I don't guarantee anything.

Last but not least, I would love some feedback — good or bad — it truly makes my day and also helps me improve my writing. Thank you in advance. I hope you enjoy this journey with me!

 **Chapter 1 — Reflections**

 _She has the grace of a lioness and the cold edge of a shark_ , she thought, _her eyes are a blurry concoction of confidence and heat_.

Stevie wasn't sure if this heat was the warmth of cautious compassion or just another way to burn at the stake, but she chose to believe it was the former. Fiona might have thought Stevie didn't notice her while playing her favorite song, _Landslide_ , on the piano, but Stevie had internalized the essence of the song to a painful extent over the years, being able to replay all of the heartache it contained at all times without giving it any thought at all.

While her fingers slowly slid over the keys, she couldn't help but continuously glance over to Fiona. It was impossible not to; her presence was like an overwhelming existence filling a limited space — constantly seeming to burst at the seams and simultaneously putting pressure on her skin. Yet, it gave Stevie unprecedented energy — like cocaine, but better. An uncomfortable addiction, she thought, though was there any addiction that was not uncomfortable?

Fiona sat in an antique chair to Stevie's right in a plain black dress — of course, she wouldn't wear anything else. Her legs were crossed elegantly and her body was at ease — or seemed to be. It was almost like the chair was holding her body and Stevie knew it was rare to see her friend trust the music and the words, her words, instead of trying to maintain her character. This was the most calm Stevie had ever seen her, even if it was just through a peripheral glimpse. Yet she knew that Fiona would never dare to let her guard down completely; the only woman who knew Fiona Goode was Fiona Goode herself. As Stevie played the last notes, the piano became quieter and her voice softer. The room fell silent once the song had ended and she felt like the last sung word, 'down,' resonated in the room for an infinite amount of seconds.

In the meantime, Fiona had taken a sip of white wine and was now holding on to the glass in her right hand, resting her other comfortably on the arm rest. She then slowly set it down on the table next to her and pushed herself out of the chair to walk in Stevie's direction. Stevie left her spot behind the piano as well and turned to Fiona, who, once she had arrived in front of the piano, hugged her friend closely. The two women lingered in the embrace for just a little longer than usually. Fiona pressed Stevie against her chest a little tighter before loosening her grip.

"That was wonderful," she said in her raspy yet powerful voice, "I'm glad to have you here." Stevie smiled a vague smile — not sure if letting it out or hiding it would be appropriate. She sat her hat down on the piano before walking towards Fiona, who gestured her to sit down in the chair next to her.

"Spalding," she pointed to Stevie's wine glass, "please." Spalding responded with a slight nod and then poured her some white wine faster than Stevie realized. "I hope you like white wine," Fiona smiled at her, "thank you Spalding." He nodded again and then disappeared somewhere in the background.

"I do," Stevie said humbly. Fiona took out another cigarette, lit it and took a deep, seemingly relieving, puff of smoke. She then offered Stevie a cigarette, holding her pack out in front of her as if she was presenting them.

"I actually quit smoking," she took a cigarette, "but how could I refuse you?" She leaned in closer so Fiona could light her cigarette. The closer she leaned, the more electrified she felt. She wondered if all witches had this kind of aura, but she already knew the answer: Fiona was not like all witches, and Stevie wished she wasn't, either. They both leaned back into their chairs, Fiona slightly more eased than Stevie.

"This is great," Fiona took another big drag and then exhaled the smoke in a very controlled manner.

"I agree," Stevie managed to say, trying hard not to choke from the now unfamiliar taste of cigarettes.

Fiona looked over to her and started laughing genuinely. While resting it on the backrest, Stevie let her head fall gently to the left to catch Fiona's eyes and then chimed in with another smile she tried to alleviate. She noticed that while laughing, Fiona's eyes got smaller and the small wrinkles around them became more distinct, like an accessory adding to the sincerity of her smile. All of this felt more like the background to the spectacle that was the radiant glow of the sparkle in her eyes. Stevie thought that even if she was deaf, Fiona's eyes would still be the most beautiful smile she'd ever seen.

"So," Fiona crossed her legs again, "what has life presented you with lately? I feel like I haven't seen you in a lifetime."

Stevie removed some strands of hair from her face in an attempt to put them into place, "I don't go out of the house much these days. I try not to spend too much time in the public. People are assholes, you know." She looked down, "I usually spend all of my time on music and writing," she took another sip of wine.

"Well," Fiona got up and made her way over to the piano, which Stevie perceived as unexpected but not unpleasant, as her eyes immediately fell on Fiona's curvy backside that was highlighted by the black dress. They wandered up to her face as soon as she turned around and leaned on the piano, bracing herself with her hands, "you're outstanding at what you do." Without looking up, she called for Spalding. "I'm in the mood for some music."

He magically appeared out of the dark; he almost seemed like a present absence to Stevie — or an absent presence? Without any further questions, he vanished again and it wasn't long before _Going to California_ by Led Zeppelin started playing.

"It has been a rough day," Fiona let a slightly too big breath of smoke-filled air escape her lips, accompanied by an insincere laugh that had the sole purpose of covering her fear. For one second, Stevie felt a breeze of Fiona's vulnerability surface. Before much more could show, though, Fiona focused her glimpse on Stevie and then reached out her hand, "would do me the honor?"

While smiling internally, Stevie set down her glass of wine and got up to walks towards her friend. Once there, she placed her hand into Fiona's, "There is nothing I would rather do."

TBC


	2. The Dance

A/N

I decided it would be kind of cool to have an overall Fleetwood Mac theme in this fic that is not limited to one song as I previously mentioned (Landslide). Like I said, I do not want to decide on the story's content in advance too much as I like writing where the story and the characters take me. Thank you to everyone who has read so far and I would like to encourage you again to leave feedback so I know whether I should continue writing or not and can apply your feedback along the way.

 **Chapter 2 – The Dance**

A quick rush of magic traveled through Stevie's body when her hand fell into Fiona's. She wondered whether Fiona felt the same magic, although she knew she would never find out. Fiona's face was like a mask that moved – a cover that seemed real. Not only in her coven, but in this dark community it was a well-known fact that she could not be trusted. Her elegance always came with her recklessness and her power with her unpredictability. Yet Stevie had always felt the honesty between their friendship and what she perceived as mutual respect. Of course it was very likely that the ones Fiona had betrayed had been sure of her honesty before she killed them cold-heartedly, too.

Since when did Stevie trust her senses, anyway? They hadn't been right with Lindsey and they surely hadn't been right with Mick, or Kim, or any of the other men she had slept with. Not only slept with, but loved. She hadn't loved every one of them – she was a rock singer, after all. That's what rock singers do, she had told herself all her life, they have affairs, they break up marriages. They drink whiskey, they do cocaine, they face death. Then they either die or they go to rehab, get addicted to Klonopine and then go to rehab again. Or maybe that was just her, and maybe all of what she had persuaded herself to believe was just bullshit.

After what had felt like an eternity of their hands' warmth exchanging, Stevie finally dared to look into Fiona's eyes, which told her that she was smiling.

 _Someone told me there's a girl out there, with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair._

Fiona raised her arm and Stevie's along with it, making her body spin around slowly. The ends of her long, flowy black dress moved with her in perfect accordance; provoking Fiona to mistake a witch for an angel. An angel in black – her kind of angel. Once Stevie had turned, she raised her arm so that Fiona was forced to spin, giving their sequence of turns a perfect transition. While still holding on to Stevie with her one hand, Fiona extended her other arm to the outside, letting it flow along in the air. The two women started walking in a circle, maintaining eye contact the whole time. To Stevie, it had the familiar feeling of a Latin American dance, even though she couldn't remember the last time she had danced properly. It felt like they were in an arena and staging a spectacle, though not battling each other, but being a mirage of each other – two bodies in perfect sync.

 _To find a queen without a king, they say she plays guitar and cries and sings._

Fiona raised her arm again and Stevie spun once more, this time a little faster. To stop her speed once she had turned, she had to grab Fiona's free hand with hers, so that they formed a small oval with their arms and bodies – two crescents connected by their hands. Before Stevie was able to fully arrive in this position, Fiona pulled her closer, placed her hands behind Stevie's back and her head on her shoulder. Stevie then, too, allowed her hands to lightly hug her friend's upper back and finally, she tilted her head to the right so it rested on Fiona's.

 _Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems._

The last chords of the song faded out slowly, leaving the two of them in a slow dance position with nothing to hold their dance but them. After a few seconds of silence that had felt like an infinity that ended too soon, Fiona loosened her grip and paused to look into Stevie's eyes and place her hand on her right cheek.

"Thank you," she removed her hand and turned around, extending her arms to the ceiling as if she was stretching. "I feel better now," she let them fall down next to her body and turned to face Stevie again, "how do you do that to me every time?"

Stevie walked over to the piano, took her hat and put it in its usual position. "Magic," she glanced over to Fiona in an overly mysterious manner.

When another song started played, Fiona's address to Spalding seemed more like a conversation with the air in the room. "Spalding, turn the music down, please." She lit another cigarette, sat back down in her chair and crossed her legs – her usual position. "How long are you going to be in town?"

Stevie sat down behind the piano, the stool and the keys giving her a familiar feeling of comfort and security. "I'm not sure yet. I don't really…" she pressed down one random key, "I don't have anywhere I have to be right now. Which is nice, I guess, but it can also, you know."

Fiona breathed out the smoke that had filled her lungs, "yeah, I know." She got up and slowly but determinedly walked towards Stevie. She then sat down next to her on the piano stool, "how about you stay for a little longer than your unplanned plan has scheduled?" Stevie looked down, waiting for her friend to continue. "Cordelia and the girls are growing more powerful and independent and, well, that's not the case for me. I would love to have you here with me for some time. Of course you can stay here with us – the house is big enough and hotels here are way overpriced." Fiona crossed her legs and took another drag on her cigarette.

"You know, you should really quit smoking," Stevie turned her head to face Fiona, whose eyes shortly vanished behind the next exhale of smoke-filled air.

"Is that a yes?"

Stevie smiled and so did Fiona, the two of them understanding each other without having to talk. "Spalding," Fiona leaned back, "prepare the guest room. We'll have a visitor for the next few weeks." Stevie could only vaguely see Spalding nod and then leave in the background. Fiona placed a hand on her shoulder, took another puff of smoke and then threw her head back. Stevie's fingers were drawn to the keys of the piano again and it didn't take long until she started playing some familiar notes.

 _Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night and wouldn't you love to love her?_

 _Yes_ , Stevie thought, _yes I would._

TBC


	3. Sisters of the Moon

**Chapter 3 — Sisters of the Moon**

Fiona stared at the clock: it was 1:11am. A coincidence? She had stopped believing in coincidences over the years. She was used to being able to influence anything she'd desired to — she was the Supreme, after all.

The single chair in her room gave comfort to her body that had yet to be undressed. Even more exhausted than three hours ago, she sat in it as sluggishly as necessary. Slowly, she kicked her heels off her feet and reached for the glass of whiskey she had poured herself just moments before; the second glass since Stevie had left. She knew she should go to bed but she also knew that if she did, she wouldn't be able to sleep. Every night when she lay in bed, too many worries and fears disguised as dreams would creep into her mind. She predicted that tonight those would mix with flashbacks of Stevie, which she first thought would add some refreshing light to her dark dreams. But oddly, the more memories of that night surfaced in her thoughts, the more she tried to suppress them.

"Mom?" Cordelia opened the door a little and leaned on its frame.

Fiona only glanced over to her daughter briefly, still furious over finding out about Hank's past — a fact she'd known all along, but Cordelia hadn't wanted to believe.

"I wanted to apologize," she stepped in a little further, "I really thought he loved me. I have ended all contact with him and—"

"Oh, you want my applause? Congratulations, you finally broke up with a witch hunter after way too many years. God knows he could have killed us all," Fiona was well aware of her harsh tone and lit another cigarette.

Cordelia lowered her head, knowing her mother would need some more time to process what had happened — even she herself still needed some time to realize that the man she loved had been betraying her all along.

"Good night, mother," she got ready to close the door, when Fiona interrupted her.

"Cordelia."

Cordelia paused and opened the door a little more.

Fiona set down her glass of whiskey, "We are going to have a visitor for the next couple of weeks. Stevie will stay in the guestroom upstairs. Make sure our little amateur witches behave."

"Yes, mother." Cordelia closed the door without waiting for a 'good night' or a 'love you' that she had always wished for as a child but never got.

Fiona let herself sink into the chair even more so that her lower body almost slipped off the edge. She then took a big swig of whiskey and swallowed it faster than her throat had been prepared for. When she braced her head on her hand, she already knew that she would find some hair in it as soon as she would sit up straight again. Now that her attempt to be immortal had failed, she had to come to terms with the fate that was dying from cancer — or killing all of her fellow-witches in order to have more time and strength than she would have otherwise.

She felt embarrassed that she had let some tears slip away while Stevie had played "Has Anyone Ever Written Anything For You" earlier, but those had been tears that she had impossibly been able to hold back. They had been like a necessary ending to a long day — only the day was still not over. Fiona hoped Stevie hadn't noticed; after all, she had a reputation to maintain.

Although she hadn't actually felt shame; she merely convinced herself she had. For some reason, whenever she was with Stevie, it didn't feel like she let her guard down, or at least that it wasn't a bad thing. She felt a sense of security and acceptance whenever she was around her that she had never experienced before.

And there she was, thinking about Stevie again even though she had tried her best not to. Fiona gulped down the rest of her drink, feeling a rush in her lungs and a strong aftertaste. When she lifted her head from her hand, she found what she'd feared she would: a big strand of blond hair in her hand; the biggest one yet. Her hair had got both thinner and fewer but she knew this was just the beginning.

* * *

Stevie missed her house, yet she enjoyed hotel rooms in a way. They had a somewhat pure and new feeling to them — no past, no memories. They were also smaller than what she was used to, which she liked. In a smaller space, the weight of her loneliness seemed lighter than it did in her mansion in Los Angeles.

It was 1:30am in the morning and she had just got home from Fiona's house. Most people would consider this late; for Stevie, though, this was quite a normal time. She'd always felt the most creative late at night, when the moon was up, the world was silent and she was left with her words and thoughts and a pen and paper. Even now, when she was exhausted after a long but wonderful day full of music, old friends, emotions and silent decisions, she sat down to write in her journal — not only to capture the day but also to capture her feelings and the short-lived rush of energy she had felt from being with Fiona. She wasn't really sure where these feelings came from or what they meant, but she didn't want to think about it, either. Maybe she didn't need to think about it, she thought, it was not like she had anything to lose or anyone her actions would affect.

Once she had bled all of her feelings on paper, she closed her journal and made her way to the big, king-sized bed that wasn't hers. She grabbed her suitcase that she still hadn't completely unpacked and hoisted it onto the bed. Tomorrow she would have to put all of her belongings back into it anyways and travel to yet another place.

 _Like the gypsy that I was_ , she thought. She remembered the time before her fame with no money for food and only a mattress that she had decorated on the floor. Except now she would have a king-size bed, not a mattress on the floor. She would have a five-course meal, not expired food that was on sale from the local grocery store. Even though Stevie was grateful for that part of her fame, she missed the old days. Not necessarily because she had been poor then, but because her spirit had felt more careless and free. Love had been able to be love and hadn't been compromised by music or affairs or addiction. She felt like her success had made her lose some of her instincts over the years, although she tried to persuade herself that she hadn't lost but discovered them.

After she had struggled to unzip her dress — the downside to living alone and wearing long, black dresses — her body felt relief when the soft, warm New Orleans air brushed her skin. Even though she loved all of her dresses, they were just another way to cover up her body. Black wasn't just her favorite color because it complied with her spirit, but also because it made her look slimmer. With constant self-doubt and media-exposure, the last thing she needed was another story on her weight gain.

Stevie folded up her dress neatly and put it in the suitcase. Then she remembered the little bag of cocaine she had put in a little side pocket under the fabric of her suitcase. She had sworn herself that she would never start again. After all, it's easier not to start than to have to quit. But then again, she had already started 40 years ago, so that in a way she had been quitting ever since.

She began to wish that Neil had never stopped by that night. Neil was an old, toxic friend. The one you were friends with for all the wrong reasons. Whom you said 'yes' to one too many times. It had been long since they'd shared beds together, but it had felt right at the time. It always did, but it never was. After a night full of romance and old memories, Neil had sneaked out as early as the sunrise the next morning, leaving her with a bad breath and a small bag of cocaine that he'd accidentally forgotten. Eight days later, she found herself standing in front of another bed alone, holding that bag of cocaine. She hadn't opened it yet and she knew she shouldn't, either.

Stevie climbed on top of the bed and tucked the little bag under her pillow. She then wrapped herself in a blanket and finally fell asleep before her desire could keep up with her.

TBC


	4. Little Lies

A/N

Thank you to everyone who has read this far! I know that I'm taking my time with unraveling the storyline, which is probably because I enjoy writing detailed descriptions of emotions, facial expressions etc. a lot more than dialogue. So please bear with me! If you have any suggestions or advice, please let me know! As always, I would really appreciate a review!

Enjoy!

 **Chapter 4 — Little Lies**

"Are we hosting celebrity parties every day now?" Madison scoffed when she opened the door and found Stevie with her suitcase outside.

Fiona's heels could be heard resounding in the hallway when she made her way to the door.

"Instead of working on your sad magic tricks, maybe you should spend more time rethinking your manners." Fiona didn't care to look at Madison and went straight on to greet Stevie.

"Hello, my dear," she welcomed her with a big hug and a kiss on her cheek, "I apologize for my daughter's impertinent students."

"Not a problem," Stevie stepped in with her carry-on bag, leaving her suitcase behind.

Fiona turned to Madison, who was still standing next to the two with annoyance on her face. "Use some of your great skills on that one," she pointed to the suitcase, "the guestroom upstairs. Now."

She then turned back to her friend and immediately linked arms with her. They entered the house together and made their way through the hallway.

* * *

Having arrived in the guestroom, Stevie could finally feel a sense of home again; however, that feeling came with old ghosts. Yet this time, they weren't her ghosts — not yet. She'd folded her dresses and shawls neatly and was now unfolding them to hang them in the spare closet. Stevie had always loved Fiona's house; the dance of black and white with a few diamonds: simple yet elegant, just like her friend.

A little part of her was scared of being there with all of the young witches. Not only did they bring drama that she felt just too old for, but they also reminded her of how old she actually was. They acted as a mirror of her young self, showing her her own mortality. But she couldn't have rejected Fiona's offer — how could she have. After all, she did want to stay with her, even if that meant staying with the witches and the ghosts and everything else she had yet to find out about.

The last piece she found in her suitcase was the bag of cocaine that she had tucked back into the side pocket that morning. Looking around the room, she concluded that the best place for it was the little dresser right next to her bed. She hid it in the upper drawer, way in the back and right behind her journal. Stevie then walked up to the big mirror in the middle of the room, trying to make her appearance as fitting for the occasion as it had been when she'd left the hotel.

* * *

Meanwhile, Fiona was downstairs preparing some drinks. She decided it was too early for whiskey — at least she thought that that was what the general opinion was — and so she mixed up some mimosas. As her nervousness grew, though, she resolved to take a shot of Bourbon. She then set the glass down and braced herself on the counter with both of her hands.

She was exhausted — mentally, physically, and magically. How would she explain her bald head to Stevie or to anyone, for that matter? Wigs? She'd never been a fan.

Fiona didn't really care about anyone but Stevie, though, so she was the only one she actually worried about.

How would she explain her mood swings, her absences during chemo therapy? Did she even have to?

Why would she? Stevie was just a friend; they hadn't seen each other in years before yesterday. Why would she care? She was just another white witch, after all, and Fiona had promised herself never to trust any witch but herself.

Yet she couldn't deny the specialty that came with Stevie: her black dresses, her magical movements, her mysterious facial expressions that even Fiona hadn't been able to decode so far. Her friend had an unbelievable presence and she was well aware of that. Strangely, with Stevie she didn't feel jealousy, only endless admiration. But then again, she wasn't a Supreme — Fiona tried to convince herself that had Stevie been a Supreme, she would have treated her just as recklessly as she was treating any possible candidate now.

"Drinking again, I see." Myrtle entered the kitchen.

Still bracing herself on the counter, Fiona turned her head only slightly to look at Myrtle from the corner of her eyes. "Don't you have acid to throw in some innocent girl's face?"

Myrtle laughed briefly and walked around the counter. "I saw you've found yourself another witch to deceive."

"Leave Stevie out of this." Fiona said in a low and breathy voice. She then straightened herself, grabbed the two glasses of mimosa and turned around to face Myrtle.

"I'm sorry, but I have better things to do than listen to your shit."

A few weeks ago she would have tried to make that comment sound fake-friendly but the chemo had taken all the energy she would have needed for that, so that she ended up saying it in the exhausted and mean manner it was meant as.

While Fiona walked away, Myrtle remained in her position but raised her voice a little to make sure Fiona would hear her.

"You know, Stevie, too, will find out about your charade. Even magic powers can't disguise who you really are."

Pretending not to have heard anything, Fiona kept on walking towards the staircase, trying to ignore the truth in Myrtle's remark.

TBC


	5. Enchanted

**A/N**

After some rather short chapters, I decided to combine the next two in order to give you a little more "action." Please enjoy and review if you would like to, it always makes my day.

 **Chapter 5 — Enchanted**

Setting down one of the glasses on a small table in the hallway, Fiona carefully knocked on the door of the guest room. After hearing a faint 'yes,' she picked it back up and, carrying one beverage in each hand, she first used her elbow to unlock the door and then her hip to swing it open.

"A small celebratory welcome drink," Fiona handed one glass to Stevie, who stood next to the bed. "I'll order something if you're hungry — the staff in this house has stopped doings its job long ago."

"It's fine. Thank you." Stevie smiled, raised her glass and looked into her friend's eyes, noticing a small streak of exhaustion in them.

The two clinked glasses, neither of them feeling the need to say a toast as the mutual pleasure originating from Stevie's stay seemed evident.

"I'm taking you out to dinner tonight," Fiona's glass left her lips, "The everyday routine in this house can get horridly boring very quickly. That way you'll see a little bit more of New Orleans — the non-witchy part that is." Her left hand rested on her hip while the other aided in taking another sip of her drink.

"I couldn't imagine a better ending to my first day here," Stevie responded in the most casual manner she could manage when, secretly, she was overcome with boiling excitement.

Fiona looked around the room as if she had never been in it before. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Don't worry about me," Stevie walked behind the bed and placed her glass on the drawer — the same drawer in which she had carefully tucked away a bag of cocaine just minutes before.

"I'm an artist, too, you know. I don't need much more than my journal, my pen, and," Stevie paused to specifically look up at her friend, "an inspiration."

Fiona raised one of her eyebrows, sending Stevie a twisted smirk and a look of approval. "Well, you'll definitely find some inspiration _here_ ," she said in a tone that was part sarcasm, part bitterness and part something Stevie couldn't quite make out.

"If you don't mind, I'll rest a little now — so I can be more fun tonight."

The last thing the white witch wanted to do was rest when the embodiment of her desire was standing right in front of her, but at the same time she knew that her exhausted body did not leave much room for any choices. Ever since she'd quit cocaine — and then Klonopine — she'd been struggling with flashes of gruesome fatigue that not even her healing powers could cure. She tried to convince herself that she would have all the time in the world with Fiona so that it would be better to be fully present and awake when she was with her rather than having to force her brain not to shut down every five seconds.

"Of course," Fiona left her position to approach Stevie to whom she then reached out her hand. The singer understood her gesture and placed her hand in Fiona's, being greeted by a warm squeeze.

"Get some rest. I'm glad you're here."

Fiona let go sooner than Stevie would have liked her to and made her way towards the door. Without turning around, she asked "I'll see you tonight. Six o'clock?"

"Six o'clock." Stevie confirmed, watching the door close and then enjoying the sound of Fiona's heels getting quieter as she walked away.

* * *

At precisely 5:45pm, Stevie made her way downstairs in what she called her stage costume: plateau heels to cover up the fact that she was just barely over five feet; a long, black dress with a girdle to make her stomach look slimmer and her boobs look bigger; slightly wavy hair, her lips a darker shade of maroon and, of course, one of her shawls. With little moons and stars sown all across the fabric it was easily her favorite.

When she arrived in the kitchen, the blonde found herself in an empty room. Anxious to be late, she had resolved to get ready early but was soon plagued by an even greater anxiety of waiting in her room alone until the clock would strike six so that she'd concluded to go downstairs and hope Fiona would already be there. Before she could be upset about the fact that her plan had failed and she would now have to face her solitary nervousness downstairs, she heard somebody else's footsteps behind her.

"Well hello there," a faintly-smiling Myrtle greeted her.

The nervous witch turned around and, holding her breath for a moment, could only manage to respond with a surprised "Hi."

"I haven't seen _you_ in a long time." Myrtle took some slow steps closer to her opponent, though not particularly in her direction.

Stevie had never known Myrtle very well and she had never made an effort to get to know her, either, as she knew that her affinity for Fiona and their mutual dislike for each other wouldn't allow any kind of friendship between them. Stevie lowered her head, feeling as though she would betray her friend with every word she uttered in the redhead's presence.

"I see Fiona has made you her guest."

Myrtle's effortless self-confidence was daunting to Stevie, although she tried not to let it show. For a few seconds, Myrtle just stared at her, and Stevie wasn't sure whether she did so because she expected a reply or simply for the act of maintaining eye contact. Fortunately for Stevie, the Supreme entered and ended the awkward scenario.

"You've already found a new prey," Fiona addressed Myrtle without making the effort to look at her. Instead, she went over to Stevie, placed her hand on one side of her face and left a kiss on the other.

"We're going out, if you would excuse us." Fiona turned to face Myrtle briefly before walking past her, with Stevie following.

"Oh — are you burning her, too?" Myrtle hissed.

These words stung in Stevie's heart immediately and, truthfully, they were the reason she had wanted to avoid all contact with anyone in the house: she was scared she would discover something about Fiona that was obvious to everyone but her; something that would make her have to change her mind about her friend. Although, in the back of her mind, she knew that there were plenty stories that would be reason enough to distrust Fiona — yet she had been trying her hardest to ignore them.

Fiona halted and felt the anger rise in her body. _Not in front of Stevie_ , she thought, trying hard not to clench her fists.

"We only burn witches who deserve to be burned," she said in a forced casual and slightly mocking manner and then, without looking back, headed towards the door, Stevie walking next to her.

* * *

The lights on Royal Street were like nothing Stevie had ever seen. Of course she had been to New Orleans many times before, but she had never been able to really enjoy her visit due to her busy schedule. Not only did she have any time in the world now, but she was also walking next to the most graceful witch in New Orleans, if not everywhere. Fiona had linked arms with her a few minutes ago, raising both Stevie's nervousness and excitement.

"Wait a second," Stevie felt the particular need to stop in front of a trio playing the guitar, cello and trumpet. One of the reasons Stevie loved New Orleans was because music seemed to be everywhere — not only in the streets, but also in the hearts of the people. It was what made the spirit of the city so extraordinary. She used her spare hand to dig for some money in the pocket of her black, velvety jacket. Having found a twenty dollar bill, she gently put it in the artists' open guitar case, Fiona watching her friend's movements closely.

Stevie may have perceived Fiona's linking arms with her as a natural consequence of their friendship, but the truth was that Fiona needed the assistance. Even though she didn't feel as weak as she had the day before, she still felt like she couldn't trust her legs to carry her. While getting ready, she had tried her best to cover up the small bald spots on her head, but her body's unreliability was impossible to elude. While trying to hold on to Stevie bending forward, Fiona admired her friend's act of generosity.

Fiona had always had an appreciation for art, but she had never been one to care about people — after all, it was difficult enough being a Supreme in a Coven full of morons. Starting in her early youth, she had built a thick wall to protect herself and her powers. In order to do so, she had veiled her true character behind a mask of mysteries, so it would be impossible for others to know the truth in her actions or feelings. Unfortunately, she had internalized this technique over the years, to the extent that she herself was often unable to identify the true nature of her feelings under the layers of disguise.

Stevie graced Fiona with a short smile before the two continued their way down on Royal Street.

"I am in love with the—," she paused to find the right word, " _magic_ of this city," Stevie said while making sure Fiona was still holding on to her arm.

When she looked around, she could see a blend of diverse pedestrians; small groups of entertainment acts such as musicians and mime artists; dimmed light coming from the variety of stores and restaurants that surrounded them; an omnipresent background noise of laughter and chatter and the warm glimmer of the decorations on the houses they were walking past.

"Me too," Fiona said in a lower voice than she had intended. Slightly distracted by the enthusiasm caused by feeling her friend's body pressed to hers, the street sign reminded Fiona of the intended destination of their walk. "We need to turn right here — I'm taking you to one of my favorite restaurants in the French Quarter, _Muriel's_. They have some fantastic Escargot."

* * *

After a wonderful, long dinner and Fiona insisting on paying despite Stevie's objection, the two witches found themselves on Chartres Street, energized from the wine and the food for the moment. Not only were they laughing louder, they were also holding on to each other a little tighter than before.

"I want to show you something," Fiona took the lead, "follow me."

Making their way past Jackson Square, which added a gorgeous view to their walk, they found their way back to Royal Street and eventually ended upon Bourbon Street.

"This is my favorite place to watch the streets of New Orleans," Fiona now moved her hand from Stevie's arm to her fingers and pulled her into the doors of _Oceana Grill_.

"Good evening, Trevor," she greeted the waiter at the reception.

"Ms. Goode, what a pleasure."

"I would like to show my friend here your view from upstairs. Is there any way you could…" she raised her eyebrow, leaving the rest of the question silently float in the room.

Trevor looked around before leaning in to Fiona and then whispered, "this has got me in trouble before, but I'll make an exception for you." He walked over to the flight of stairs and removed the rope that had signaled the way up to be closed. "You know your way around."

Fiona nodded in confirmation, placed a ten dollar bill in his hand and before Stevie could realize what was happening, she found herself outside on a roof surrounded by what seemed like a thousand little lights hung between two of the restaurant's wall.

"They host many weddings up here," Fiona explained, while Stevie stood there, seemingly frozen. Still gazing up at the lights, Stevie noticed Fiona had walked back inside the restaurant and after letting go of the spectacle of lights, she followed.

"Let's go this way," Fiona walked towards a big glass door straight ahead and opened it. "This is the patio that has a direct view on Bourbon Street. Next to lots of drunk people, the lights and the mix of different voices and music from the clubs make for quite a unique sight."

Stevie stepped outside; feeling a soft, warm breeze welcome her.

"Wow," she gasped, holding on to the railing in front of her. She then leaned over it in excitement and looked to both sides, trying to see as far and as much as possible.

All of a sudden, Fiona felt a rush of exhaustion making its way through her body. "Let's head home," she said forcibly nonchalant.

Slightly confused by her friend's abrupt request to leave, Stevie tried to capture the view in her mind by scanning over the street once more and then turned around, "Sure."

* * *

Finally home and upstairs, Fiona let herself fall into her big, cushioned chair. She was angry at herself for having to end the evening earlier than she would have liked to but she tried to remind herself that this was better than the alternative — letting Stevie see her fragile and ill.

Before she could sink into remorse any more, she heard a knock on her door. Immediately, the fear of someone catching her in a weak moment filled her body so that she attempted to sit up a little straighter. While doing so, the door already opened and Stevie appeared, still in the same clothes she had worn when they had said goodbye just five minutes ago.

"I wanted to check on you again. You didn't look good earlier." Stevie entered but, after taking a few steps, she stopped in the middle of the room, only now realizing she might have intruded.

Fiona pushed down the head of the cigarette dispenser next to her, placed one of the cigarettes between her lips and lit it coolly.

"I'm fine," she breathed out the smoke.

Stevie felt both fear and anger seeing her friend like this. It was obvious to her that Fiona was lying and the fact that someone she trusted so much was hiding something from her made her furious.

In midst of a flood of feelings she couldn't quite identify, Stevie walked over to Fiona and took the cigarette out of her hands. Holding it herself, she paused for a second, merely looking at Fiona, who didn't seem as surprised or even outraged as Stevie had figured she would. In fact, she didn't seem to have any reaction at all; she just sat there calmly, which made Stevie first insecure and then worried.

Under the pressure of the oddness of this moment, Stevie took a drag herself instead of putting it out in the ash tray, immediately loathing herself for it. She then looked at her friend, the smoke she had exhaled blurring the lines of her face, which made her even more attractive in the dimmed light of the spacious room.

After having found the clarity to put out the cigarette, Stevie leaned over to reach the ash tray next to Fiona while trying to stay in her upright position. She forced herself to maintain eye contact and to keep a serious face throughout the whole movement in order to clarify the importance of this conversation.

"Stop. Bullshitting. Me." Stevie finally exclaimed in a surprisingly calm yet meaningful and harsh tone, trying to put emphasis on each word by putting a pause between them.

In that moment, she didn't know whether the mixture of pain and anger in her voice was a result of Fiona's obvious misery, of the secrets she suspected were being kept from her or of the urgent longing for the witch that she had been hiding in the back of her mind and that came with a reminder that she could never have her.

Before any more thoughts could confuse the white witch's mind, Fiona grabbed the collar of her dress and drew her closer so that their faces collided. Their lipstick-stained lips rested on each other before Fiona opened her mouth a little wider to allow Stevie to place her upper-lip between them. Despite her exhaustion, Fiona felt a stream of endorphins spread throughout her body, followed by immediate arousal and insecurity due the flutter in her stomach. Stevie's heart was racing as she placed both of her hands on the Supreme's cheeks to pull her close enough so that she could wrap her mouth around her lower-lip passionately.

The tension made the kiss feel like slow-motion, both of them lingering in each position as long as possible in order to enjoy it to the biggest extent. When Stevie tried to pull her counterpart even closer as both of them opened their mouths a little wider, Fiona withdrew her face from thr singer's grip. Still holding her hands as if she was holding her friend's face, a startled Stevie stared at Fiona, who now looked to the floor.

"I think I should go to sleep," she looked back up to Stevie with a weak smile that seemed odd given the circumstances. "And so should you," Fiona pushed herself out of her chair and walked across the room to open the door.

Stevie turned around to find Fiona holding the door for her and paused, trying to process what had just happened. Not wanting to disrespect the Supreme's request, she then forced her body to make its way out the door rather quickly and, before she could turn around to say goodnight, she already heard the door shut behind her.

TBC


	6. Kind of Woman

_A/N_

 _Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing! Starting next chapter, I will have to change this fic's rating to M, so be sure to either follow or check the M-rated section regularly. Enjoy!_

 **Chapter 6 — Kind of Woman**

"What happened to Nan was not an _accident_."

Cordelia swallowed to curb her anger.

"This Coven is in imminent danger and by failing to see its full extent you're rather a threat than a protector."

Fiona looked at her daughter and pitied what she had become. Her pride told her to get up and circle Cordelia in order to look more confident but it didn't take her long to realize that getting up in that condition would make her seem even weaker.

"Don't you dare think I am not aware of the dark outside forces that are putting this Coven in jeopardy. And don't you dare accuse me of not protecting you."

Fiona lit herself a cigarette while Cordelia rolled her eyes and shifted her weight from her right leg to her left, trying not to give her mother the satisfaction of revealing her annoyance.

"I have done everything," the older paused for a second, "everything. I have taken all necessary measures to provide you with a good life and to keep bad spirits out of here. All you have done is mix herbs and be a cry-baby about it."

Cordelia sighed, still filled with boiling rage, even though in the back of her mind she could sense a hint of gratitude. Despite her reckless personality and the fact that the only thing that drove Fiona Goode was her own well-being, she hated to admit that her mother had benefited the Coven once or twice and, with the witch hunters practically on their doorstep, they could sure use the current Supreme's beastly resistance.

"Delia. Some measures come with certain sacrifices. Our _powers_ come with certain sacrifices. You should know that."

As soon as she heard her mother's words, Cordelia turned around in vexed clarity.

" _Your_ powers certainly do. You would gladly sacrifice _our_ powers. Our _lives_."

"Now don't be silly, "Fiona took another drag on her cigarette. She noticed that drawing in smoke had become increasingly straining, which didn't stop her from taking an even bigger one just a few seconds after.

"If I wanted to kill you, you would all be long dead."

* * *

Stevie could hear the sound of voices colliding upstairs. After not catching any sleep the night before, she sat in the kitchen and sipped on some water. Even though she usually didn't like to write in public spaces, she decided to take her journal downstairs to either create or review some drafts. She could not bear to stay in her room any longer; her confusion over last night's events combined with the bag of cocaine in close proximity to her susceptible body did not allow her to keep a clear mind.

When she couldn't bear to hear the witches' argument anymore — the thought of a fight made her uncomfortable — she went to sit at the piano. The singer opened her journal and searched for one of her old poems she'd recorded as a demo that had never made it on an album. Even though it was meant to be played on the guitar, she enjoyed turning it into a slower version from time to time. She found that the accompaniment of the piano left more room for the world in her poetry to shine and the raw emotion in her voice to unfold — although, as a natural consequence, it also made her more vulnerable.

 _She's natural in her beauty, I guess you could say she's just an unapproachable comedienne._

Stevie wondered whether Fiona was thinking about her or about last night at all. She _had_ to; a kiss is not something that could simply be ignored — or that's what she told herself. Stevie was sure that, in the very moment their lips had met, Fiona wanted it, too; after all, it was Fiona who had initiated the kiss. But it was her, too, who had ended it.

 _So my friend is continuing on a destructive road._

Although it had kept her up all night, she was still unable to identify the reason for her friend's sudden rejection.

Exhaustion? Unlikely. Then she wouldn't have kissed her in the first place. Fear? Maybe. But Stevie was afraid, too.

 _And I learned to say the words: well, just whose side are you on, anyway?_

Stevie stopped playing in the middle of the song — something she didn't think she had ever done before. For some reason, her fingers simply could not bear to play anymore and so the room fell silent. Her body felt worn-out and heavy as she sunk into the cushions of the piano stool and rested her hands on the muted keys.

Her trance-like state had blocked out the sound of footsteps getting louder and closer. It was only when the corner of her eyes caught the black outline of a woman that she registered the immediate presence of the Supreme.

Internally screaming to make her body wake up, she turned to face Fiona, both of them reluctant to greet the other.

"I'll be gone for a few hours."

Fiona skipped the _good morning_ and slid her long, black gloves over her bony fingers.

"Cordelia is hosting a funeral for one of the students she lost. I will see you later."

Fiona had already turned around to head towards the door when Stevie got up and left her spot behind the piano.

"Wait."

The Supreme paused and looked back over her shoulder, trying to conceal that she'd been dreading this conversation ever since Stevie had left her room the night before.

"Stevie…"

She sighed and hoped to indicate that she was not in the mood for an important conversation. Not only was she too exhausted but also too unsure of her emotions to be confronted with what had happened.

"We need to talk about last night," the singer said with a clarity that surprised her.

"I…" Fiona sighed and then spontaneously decided to light a cigarette in hope for some stress relief. "We should…"

"Just ignore it?" Stevie stole Fiona's words when she didn't finish her sentence, which didn't make them less painful.

"No."

Fiona crossed one of her arms, holding the other up to her mouth, her cigarette comfortably resting between her fingers.

"Listen."

She approached Stevie in an attempt to seem confident and strong — two qualities she felt she'd lost ever since she'd first been diagnosed.

"I am not the kind of woman you would want to…"

As she wasn't able to stand the heaviness of her own words, she let the focus of her eyes slip and looked to the ceiling in order not to cry.

"Not the kind of woman you would want to get involved with. I have done many things in my life that—"

"We all have," Stevie interrupted in a determined voice.

Fiona exhaled in frustration, walked up to the singer and stopped right in front of her. She then used her spare hand to grace Stevie's cheek with a soft stroke of her cold fingers. The latter looked down while she forced herself not to close her eyes so she wouldn't feel the full extent of the inevitable, ambiguous pleasure that was the curse of Fiona's touch.

"I am a lonely woman," Fiona finally continued, "and I do reckless things."

Even though offering this justification stung like needles in every part of her body, Fiona hoped that it would fulfill its purpose and extinguish Stevie's hope and persistence. She left the spot in front of her friend and took a few steps backwards to gain distance.

"I hope you can forgive me."

Stevie's heart dropped to the ground but deeper, maybe the basement, she thought, or maybe — yes, maybe hell. Her heart dropped to hell. Did that mean that the kiss wasn't proof of affection or love but rather of loneliness and despair? Had Stevie imagined all of the feelings she thought she'd seen in the blonde's eyes?

Before she could ask Fiona any questions at all, she noticed that the remaining members of the Coven had gathered downstairs.

"Mother," Cordelia said and glanced over to Stevie for a second before looking back at the addressee, "we need to go."

Fiona merely flung a brief, half-hearted glance into Stevie's direction as a goodbye and then headed towards the door so she would be the first one to leave the house. Cordelia's eyes wandered back to Stevie, offering a vague smile of pity and compassion without really knowing what had been going on.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, sure." Stevie replied almost automatically. "As always," she added in a voice that was barely audible, "I'll be alright."

The singer heard the door close and found herself in an all-too-familiar situation. She had been fooled, ridiculed and left. And she wasn't even surprised.

She angrily grabbed her notebook from behind the piano along with a half-empty bottle of Bourbon that was sitting on a tray and stomped up the stairs.

Fiona's words still haunted her, endlessly resounding in her ears. Simultaneously, she could still feel the touch of the blonde's lips lingering on hers, their breaths intertwining, their hearts pounding in the same violent rhythm.

As she made her way to her room, the temperature in her body rose and the stability in her legs subsided. Sensing the proximity of an unavoidable breakdown and overwhelmed by the growing, stifling pain in her heart, she tripped and caught herself shortly before the fall.

When she finally arrived at her destination, Stevie slammed the door shut, rushed to her nightstand, hastily opened its upper drawer and took out the bag of cocaine. After merely examining it for a few seconds, she closed her eyes and clutched it in both of her hands, the familiar texture of the grainy substance on her fingertips providing her with a strange comfort. Tears started running down her face and became so plentiful that it didn't take long until she could hardly breathe.

While she tried not to choke on her emotions, the song she'd played earlier suddenly came back to her and she couldn't help but recite some of the lines in her mind.

 _But her heart was quietly crying, I guess she even felt guilty about even dying. Sad Mabel Normand._

She gasped for air.

 _Yes,_ she thought, _sad Mabel Normand._

 _Sad Stevie Nicks._

TBC


	7. Beloved Exile

**Chapter 7 — Beloved Exile**

The funeral wasn't long, half an hour at the most — still not short enough for Fiona.

When she got back, she tried to quietly vanish in her room, almost like a teenager sneaking back inside the house after a wild night out. The last thing she needed after standing out in the cold and feeling her weakness in every bone was for her to run into Stevie once again.

As soon as she arrived in her room, she poured herself a drink, downed it, then poured herself another.

It was only 1pm but the brown concoction was the only thing that kept her from letting her mask drop and her feelings show.

What she'd told Stevie— was true.

She was a reckless, lonely, aging, desperate old woman. She was also sick, but Stevie didn't know that. And she shouldn't. Stevie didn't deserve to be drawn into her fucked-up life. Fiona hated herself for living the way she did, for being the way she was. She also hated herself both for kissing Stevie and for rejecting her.

The sudden urge to throw her glass across the room and to listen to it shatter into a million of little pieces overcame her but she forced herself to contain her frustration.

As thoughts spiraled through her mind and whiskey down her throat, the only thing she knew was that Stevie was too important to her to drag her into the ruins. She'd never felt like that about anyone before, and deep inside she knew why: she loved Stevie. Fiona couldn't bear the thought of it; love did not quite fit her lifestyle or the reputation she had worked for all these years. But she loved her.

The Supreme knew exactly that her body's functions would decline rapidly within the next couple of months — something not even she herself was prepared for. There was also the possibility that she would commit a mass murder in order to restore her own powers and vitality. Neither of those options was a particular quality of a good lover. At least not when it was Stevie Nicks who was at stake.

* * *

Stevie felt the smooth sheets slide over her hands as her limbs lay heavy on the unfamiliar king-size bed. Her heart rate had accelerated immediately after the snow-like substance had entered her body. Using a rolled-up five dollar bill might not have been the most graceful way to do it, but she soon reminded herself that there was nothing graceful about cocaine whatsoever. The only thing she could hear now was her heart jumping in her chest and a funny tingling in her hands that soon spread to her stomach.

Not putting any thoughts into her actions, she let her right hand slide down the side of her body, eventually slipping it under the skirt of her dress and, without hesitation, into her panties. She could feel the black lace on her soft skin as she slowly started rubbing her center. It didn't take long until her movements became fast and ungentle, as she was desperate for relief. Fiona kept flashing through her mind and, even though Stevie tried to banish all memories that resembled the Supreme in any way, she found herself unable to control her mind as soon as the tension rose.

The blonde was surprised by the earliness of her pleasure's peak and, reaching it sooner than usually, she clenched the sheets with her spare hand's fingers. A current of electricity causing every part of her body to be flooded with heat overwhelmed the White Witch and, arching her back, she pressed her right hand on her center once more, waiting for the aftershocks to pass.

After catching her breath for a moment, she removed her hand from her panties and sat up into an upright position, not sure of what to do next.

Suddenly, she heard a knock on the door — was she paranoid?

Fiona entered and, without realizing it, Stevie looked at her as if she had been caught red-handed — which was true, in a way.

"Is this a bad time?" Fiona asked cautiously.

"Uh," Stevie choked, "no. Come in."

While Fiona closed the door behind her, Stevie watched carefully and hated herself for trying to catch a glimpse of the blonde's alluring shape.

It was only then that Stevie looked down and felt lucky when she saw that her dress wasn't tucked into her leggings.

Then either the superfluous energy in her body or the manners she thought she needed to maintain urged her to get up immediately. As she was unable to operate her body with full, rational control, she ended up standing closer to the Supreme than she had intended. Slightly paranoid that Fiona would catch the smell of fresh pleasure, Stevie tried to wipe her right hand on the back of her dress nonchalantly. However, she was unable to hold back a childish laugh that was merely a consequence of the cocaine and not conducive to the conversation.

Confused, Fiona paused before taking a few steps towards her opponent.

"You know, this is not easy for me."

Fiona tried to make a general, distant statement rather than one that would reveal her actual feelings.

Stevie just stood there, hoping Fiona couldn't hear her heartbeat that slowly drowned out all outside noise and got louder with every breath she took.

"There are just some things I can't…"

Fiona arrived right in front of Stevie and placed her hand on her cheek. She then took a deep breath and looked into her friend's eyes, almost getting lost in the sparkle of them, until — she couldn't help but notice that something was different, something she couldn't quite make out. But all of a sudden it hit her, and when it did, the soft and vague, forced smile on her face vanished at the same time as her hand dropped from Stevie's face.

Just when the latter, too, noticed what was happening, fear overcame her and she stepped away.

"Have you been doing _drugs_?" Fiona said in a sharp, agitated, yet low voice.

Stevie lowered her eyes, inhaled as much air as she possibly could and opened her mouth in preparation to defend herself but Fiona got ahead of her.

"Your pupils are dilated." She pressed one hand to Stevie's chest, "Your heart is racing."

Overwhelmed with both anger and fear, Fiona acted quickly and started searching the room for any trace of the substance.

Stevie already knew that Fiona would find the bag eventually as she hadn't even closed the drawer where she had left the remainders. She just stood there, unable to accept the fact that her whole life seemed to have turned around within the last two minutes and now, after she had surprised herself by coming to terms with it just as quickly, the singer merely waited for the inevitable misery following the exposure of her gold dust escapade.

Fiona shook up the sheets, felt up the pillows and then threw them back onto the bed in frustration. When she turned to open the upper drawer of Stevie's dresser, she discovered that it was still open and, without even having to dig, the half-empty bag of cocaine just sat there, as if it had been waiting to be discovered.

Suddenly calmer but not less angry, Fiona picked it up and then turned to Stevie.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!"

Putting emphasis on the last part, her voice went from calm to loud and angry. While still holding on to the cocaine, Fiona rushed up to Stevie and grabbed the collar of her dress.

"Are you insane?!"

She raised her hand, displaying the bag directly in front of Stevie's eyes.

"This has almost _killed_ you before."

Furious, Fiona threw the bag across the room when she turned her body away from Stevie and both of them watched the white powder spread across the floor.

Even though Stevie knew she had messed up, she couldn't bear to admit it since she was still deeply hurt by her friend's words from earlier that day.

"Why do you even care?"

Stevie, too, raised her voice.

"You are the Supreme. You have everything and you want nothing. Nobody. You couldn't care less if I died."

Unable to control the anger welling up inside of her when she heard those cruel words, Fiona ran up to Stevie and put all of the rage in a slap across her face, hitting her hard with the back of her hand.

"You don't know shit."

Captured by cocaine's spell, Stevie's high body slightly collapsed, catching itself just before a fall. Her long, blonde hair moved along with her face; her whole being shaken.

Watching her friend silently wince in pain, Fiona's hand wandered to cover her mouth while she was overcome with immediate remorse. The Supreme instantly felt the need to punish herself — after all, it was her who had killed so many witches to maintain her power, it was her who had wanted to sell her soul, it was her who had rejected Stevie. But she also knew that dealing with an addict required unconditional ruthlessness and, deep down, that her harsh reaction was merely proof of the importance Stevie had in her life.

Conveniently using the latter as a justification, Fiona would not allow the shock over her own actions to show in her eyes although she wasn't sure if she had managed to keep it hidden.

Even though it was Fiona who did the impetuous deed, it was Stevie who felt guilty. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, retracing the pain on her cheek with her frail fingers.

Stevie wasn't sure whether the vibrating sound, the force of Fiona's punishment or the cocaine in her veins had evoked a certain dizziness in her body, but remaining in the slightly bent position she was in became more difficult with every second neither of them spoke.

"Sober up, missy, and then we'll talk."

Releasing her mind from contemplating her actions, the Supreme straightened her stature and determinedly rushed towards the door, exiting without looking back.

Her low voice resounded in the room and stung like a knife in midst of the heavy silence.

 _This was worse than rehab_ , Stevie thought. _Losing Fiona was worse than losing cocaine._

TBC


	8. Storms

**Chapter 8 — Storms**

The light had left her like a lover. The darkness had covered her like a blanket. And cocaine had destroyed her like a hurricane.

If she was honest with herself, she could not care less about what she had done to her body, to her mind — she remembered the arduous years of rehab very vividly, but nothing compared to the feeling she experienced earlier that night; the guilt, the shame, the fear. The guilt of having betrayed her friend, the shame for being too involved, the fear of losing the one she— yes, the one she loved.

At first she had tried her hardest to avoid the thought of it, but now it settled in her mind as easily and softly as a feather in the wind and was met with welcoming acceptance. She didn't regret the kiss or her feelings; the anger was directed at everything that happened afterwards — Fiona's denial, her weakness, their fight. It was 2am and she could feel the ecstasy in her body subside, evoking the old familiar desire to pour herself a drink which she tried her hardest to resist until, gradually, sleep swept over her.

* * *

The chair holding her dying body seemed to be her dearest friend and the Bourbon comforting her soul to be her most reliable companion. Last night's sleep deprivation added to the cold sobriety in her face and her mind's constant preoccupation with her friend's actions felt like the biggest disease she was battling.

The outrage in her heart wasn't even caused by the fact that Stevie had given in to old patterns; in fact, the outrage she had displayed the night before was merely a cover for the actual emotion filling her soul: fear.

Fear had always been her worst enemy: the fear of being left behind, the fear of not being in power. The fear of dying, and now — what felt like the worst fear out of all of them — the fear of watching Stevie die. No, the inevitable certainty of watching Stevie die.

Fiona was more than aware of the harm cocaine could cause, she had felt the effects on her own body and she did not dare to think about the harm it must have caused in Stevie already, considering the total amount she had exposed her body to.

When she heard cautious footsteps coming closer, she knew she would have to look fear right into the eye.

Stevie, feeling slightly hungover from the emotional exhaustion more than anything else, approached the Supreme's room, obeying her instinct of keeping her head low. At first she was surprised that Fiona had left her door open but then convinced herself that she had been awaiting her, making it easier for her to overcome the anxiety of intruding.

Wearily, Stevie entered and closed the door behind her, leaving silence where a 'good morning' would have been appropriate — under normal circumstances.

Fiona lit herself a cigarette, pretending to be more focused on handling the cigarette dispenser than listening to Stevie.

"I'm—" The singer sighed, held back by both her fatigue and indecisiveness of what to say.

"I didn't do it to hurt you."

Those words were all that Stevie could manage, although she regretted them instantly, embarrassed by their foolishness.

"I have cancer."

Fiona threw the words into the room, and even though she said them calmly, it seemed almost violently given the harsh turn of topics.

Stevie stared at her in not shock but surprise, the words having arrived in her ears but not in her mind.

"I have three months, maybe six."

The Supreme continued and drew in another breath of smoke effortlessly, almost carelessly.

"You—" was all Stevie was strong enough to say before she processed the word's she had just heard and her eyes began to fill with pure shock and, finally, a thin layer of tears.

Suddenly, she felt as if the heavy weight of Fiona's words had derived her body of the strength it had left and so she was forced to make her way to her friend's bed to find relief and stability.

"How long have you known?"

The words barely made it out of Stevie's mouth and were accompanied by a desperate attempt not to let her voice crack.

"A few weeks."

"What kind of cancer is it?"

Stevie didn't know what to say, feel or ask but she concluded that by asking questions, she might be able to avoid all of these thoughts.

"Gastric. Although it's started to get to my spine, too."

Physically and emotionally drained, Stevie let her head drop into her hands and started sobbing quietly. Her hands were soon covered in a mixture of salty water and the smeared mascara that she had swiftly put on earlier in an attempt to look less weary.

Realizing the ridiculousness of her crying in opposition to Fiona's calmness, the singer rubbed her eyes briefly and then braced her chin on her folded hands.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Fiona raised her eyebrows, already feeling exhausted at the thought of having to find the right words to explain reasons she didn't even know herself.

"I was ashamed," a chuckle filled with vulnerability escaped her lips, "Ashamed to admit my weakness. Telling someone about my sickness meant that it was real."

Despite attempts to prevent it, Fiona's eyes started filling with tears and she fell silent. Yet, she displayed one of her biggest smiles when she looked up at Stevie, who discovered that the instantaneous contrast in Fiona's face — the juxtaposition of tears in her eyes and a smile on her face — was another reason she loved her.

Moved by the intensity of emotion in her friend, Stevie got up without devoting any thought to it and approached the Supreme with the intention of comforting her in any physical way. Just when she was about to close the small gap between the two women, Fiona held up her right hand, pointing her index finger at Stevie, who then stopped right in front of her.

"And now you," the tears in the Supreme's eyes were now underlined by a frail nuance in her voice, "and now you are telling me you want to die _deliberately_."

Stevie immediately knew Fiona was referencing her addiction – rather her stupid, ill-advised relapse and was overcome with shame.

"I will not let you destroy yourself with this shit. I will not watch you die with me."

Hearing these words, the White Witch was captured by raw emotion and a new set of tears that she was unable to oppress.

"So I am supposed to watch you die while I live? How is that fair?"

"It isn't."

Fiona let her cigarette fall to the floor and choked it with the sole of her heel.

"Life never is."

Stevie reached out for the Supreme's hand but unexpected words prevented her from the actual touch.

"Fiona."

A wide-eyed, out-of-breath Violet opened the door with a rush, catching both of the blondes' attention.

"Hank is down there and I think he is threatening Cordelia. He didn't know I was home so I stayed upstairs. What are we supposed to do?"

The two older witches recognized the despair in her voice and knew immediately that they had to internalize their current fear and pain in order to appear as the strong leaders they were.

"That little shit has always had a bad timing."

Fiona pushed herself out of her chair and headed towards the door, pushing Violet aside. Without hesitation, Stevie followed.

TBC


	9. Rooms on Fire

**A/N**

Just a little idea I had and couldn't get out of my head until I finally found the time to write it down. I would appreciate any kind of feedback. Thank you and please enjoy!

 _\- Set after 3x10 -_

 **White Witch Destiny**

"Come in."

The words fell gently from the White Witch's lipstick-stained mouth when she signaled for Misty Day to enter the room.

Cautiously, starstruck, the younger did as told and, after contemplating whether to sit down or not, she decided to awkwardly stand in the middle of the room and wait for further directions. In this very moment, it seemed like she had given all of her body, all of her thoughts over to Stevie; the singer being her puppeteer and she herself merely an empty shell. She did not mind this feeling, though, as it suggested a hint of a connection between her and Stevie; some kind of bond that she was not ready to give up by making any self-initiated movements.

The sight of the artist on the piano, her fingers softly sliding over the keys without any difficulty whatsoever, her slightly wavy hair (that Misty had been trying to recreate for years) effortlessly resting on her shoulders, on the cushions of her black velvet blazer that was hiding the very top of an elegant, black dress embellished with some lace, left the swamp witch in awe.

For a second, Misty found herself questioning Stevie's affinity for black clothing, considering the lightness of her soul. Before she could explore this ostensible contradiction any further, she remembered an interview she had once watched and recalled the blonde offering the explanation _why do we wear black? Because it makes us look skinny._

The young witch was suddenly hurt by the ridiculousness of this statement and wondered how someone like Stevie could dare to think of her body as flawed.

Watching her as she rose from behind the piano, Misty's adoration for her idol was only reinforced and, abruptly, turned the thoughts in her mind into a blank space.

"Misty," Stevie said in the low, raspy voice that was hers and signaled her to settle on the big, cushioned, white chair that was — next to the piano — the center of the living room.

"Thank you for finding the time."

"Oh, don't thank me; I would always find time for you, I mean–" she exclaimed in her heavy Southern accent, trying her best to hide both her childish enthusiasm and her choking nervousness.

Stevie smiled and reached for the young witch's hand, placing it between both of hers. It was just now that she was reminded of her frail physique and aging body, comparing her own hands to the other's.

"I need to talk to you about something very important. I felt uncomfortable telling you in front of the other witches; one of the worst qualities of magic is that it comes with jealousy."

Misty only managed to nod, accepting the fact that she would feel blatantly stupid no matter how she would react.

"Ever since Fiona told me about you, I've had a suspicion. I know she interpreted your growing skills as you being the next Supreme—"

"Yes, yes, the Supreme — can you imagine? Me, the Supreme?" The younger shouted in ecstasy, feeling like a stranger to her own words, embarrassed by her obvious excitement.

"Well, yes. I know she said that. Here is the thing, though… I do not believe that you are the Supreme."

Misty's smile slowly faded from her soft face. Staring into her idol's black-traced eyes, the swamp witch was overwhelmed with confusion.

"What do you mean — I thought…" she lost her words while saying them out loud, being torn between her blind trust in Stevie and the faith she had put in being the next Supreme.

"You told Fiona that you had discovered new powers alongside your first — and strongest — one, the power of resurgence. I'm not sure whether Cordelia has ever told you, but the first power of a witch is her core power; the one that will define her from the beginning and that is connected to the essence of her self in the closest and most intimate way."

Baffled, Misty's mouth remained open while her eyes were focused on Stevie's face, as if she was watching the invisible, dead bodies of her words float out from between her lips.

"All of the witches' core powers in this Coven are very strong and useful; however, they can also do much harm. Let's take Queenie, for example — her power was designed with the purpose of hurting others. Yes, those others may include enemies, but the root of her power is to cause harm."

"Yes, but how—"

"Or let's look at Fiona's case. The benefits of possessing all seven powers vanish when you consider the burdens they come with. The Supremes have a long history of destroying others, each other, and even themselves. Now, I am very close friends with Fiona — we have known each other for decades — and that is exactly why I also know what she is capable of. She may have been a good friend to me but she has not been a good Supreme to this Coven."

"There have been some strange incidents…" Misty admitted, trying her hardest to piece all of the information together without getting lost.

"It is a myth that the primary task of the Supreme is to protect her Coven. White Witches have been trying to disprove this theory for ages, so far unsuccessfully. You see, unlike common belief, there is no big family of our kind; in reality, there are only very few, hardly any of them known. A White Witch is not determined by birth, she is discovered by another White Witch; found, harvested, raised, until she can take over the elder's spot."

"Almost like the Supreme." The swamp witch uttered, her body so tense and full of new information that she couldn't manage a longer sentence.

"Yes, that part is almost like the Supremacy." Stevie turned a little more towards Misty in order to address her more directly.

"The difference between a White Witch and a Supreme is that the former's destiny is predetermined by her core power, which is primordially good, innocent, pure — white. The chosen one is destined to use it to make this wicked, witchy world a better place. For the latter, however, the singularity of having such a multitude of equal powers overrides the intended purpose of offering her Coven protection. The good she is supposed to do with her powers is compromised by her desire to stay the most powerful witch around. And it has taken more lives over the years than it has saved them."

"So, do you think we should stop Fiona?" Misty blurted out, both afraid and serious.

Stevie chuckled, all at once extinguishing the confidence Misty thought she'd gained.

"No, no. Fiona is a grown woman — dangerous, yes — but has… she has her own load to carry right now. I will take care of her, don't worry. The reason I wanted to speak to you was because I don't believe you are the next Supreme — I believe you are a White Witch, just like me, and I wanted to ask whether you would like to come and be trained by me. I have a beautiful, big old house in Los Angeles and—"

"Wait." Misty interrupted her, so overcome with joyous shock that she wasn't concerned with her manners.

"You want me to come live with you?"

"Yes, well—"

"Oh my God, Stevie Nicks wants me to come live with her!"

"Only if you want to, of course."

"Are you kidding me?!"

The swamp witch was now fully thriving in her role as a Stevie Nicks fan and, while still feeling a mixture of embarrassment, insecurity and fear, was completely filled with enthusiasm. The glow in her eyes faded briefly when the obstacles that would come with a possible departure caught up with her.

"But what about Miss Cordelia? It was more than kind of her to take me in. And Miss Fiona? She expects me to perform the Seven Wonders and prove my Supremacy."

"Don't worry, dear. I will handle it all." Stevie said in a light-hearted manner and offered a consolatory smirk, hoping to relieve some of her opponent's anxiety.

Being the tired and busy superstar that she was, Stevie let go of Misty's hand and got up, silently informing her of the end of this conversation.

Misty immediately caught on and got up herself, anxious to anger her idol in any way.

"Thank you so much, Stevie, I really appreciate it."

The two blondes walked towards the hallway, Stevie guiding her young counterpart by holding on to her arm. They stopped right in front of the staircase and turned to face each other. Misty, still unable to process the recent events, couldn't help but reassure herself of what she thought she had heard Stevie say.

"And you really think I could be a White Witch?" She balanced the words on her lips carefully.

Stevie was suddenly captured by the incredible light that radiated from Misty's eyes, the softness of her voice and her being, the swamp witch's smell of roses that a breeze of air had revealed, the smoothness of her skin and the purity of her soul. The concoction of all of these features that made up Misty Day evoked an intense feeling of desire and, in a way, adoration in the singer.

Even though the feeling overwhelmed her when it first arose, the White Witch quickly reminded herself that she was the one in power in this situation; she was the teacher, the leader, the star; she could do anything and get away with it.

In the surprising heat of the moment, Stevie's hands reached out to grab Misty's cheeks, making sure her face would stay in place. The singer then moved her face towards the other's until their lips were pressed together, perfectly in place and united, merely separated by the thin layer of fluids that escaped their mouths. Misty returned the kiss obediently, feeling her body freeze as her lips were burning.

Finding comfort in the vibrant touch of her new student, it was as if Stevie was kissing her youth goodbye; she didn't feel jealousy towards Misty but rather a bittersweet nostalgia for her own better days.

Not wanting to let herself linger too long — maybe Misty would perceive her as weak — Stevie ended the kiss, softly but swiftly, only letting one hand rest on the next White Witch's skin for a little longer.

"You can be anything you want." Stevie replied to the question that was asked what seemed like hours ago, giving Misty a mysterious feeling of hope, reassurance and ambiguity.

The young blonde couldn't help but let her face light up with the biggest smile. Dismissing Misty with a gentle cheek squeeze, Stevie turned around and let her student watch the black shape of her body vanish in the depths of the living room.

Misty Day was left in the empty hallway, smiling vigorously, and, biting her lip in awe of what had just happened, she could still taste the traces of the captivating magic that was Stevie Nicks.

THE END.


	10. Unconditional Love

_A/N I apologize for taking so long with the new update - university has kept me incredibly busy. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this update. There are probably about 2-4 more chapters to come, so please bear with me! I'd love reviews or suggestions if you have the time._

 **Chapter 10 - Unconditional Love**

Waking up next to the Supreme felt more like a dream than her fame ever had. Stevie lay in the bed that had specifically been made for the reigning Supreme, eyes wide open and fixed on the shaded white wall in front of her. Suddenly, she felt the other half of the bed move and get up before she could react to Fiona's being awake.

The latter grabbed her nightgown to cover her arms and made her way to the bathroom door.

She had lain awake most of the night, her mind occupied with thoughts of Stevie and her affection for the singer; of feeling weaker than she ever had; of a feeling of nostalgic regret and detest for Cordelia and the girls. Never had her life felt this out of control, out of her hands; never had she been more lost and never had she felt less like herself. Strangely enough, though, she hadn't gone completely crazy and whenever she felt Stevie's warm body breathe against her she knew why.

Yet she felt too old, too frail, too weak – and honestly, too cruel, as she knew the true nature of Fiona Goode – to admit that she needed Stevie and to allow any less distance between the two. As soon as that distance would be closed, Fiona was sure that the White Witch would die just as cruelly as she would and, for the first time in her life, she didn't want somebody else to die for her.

That's why she had got up quickly before she could feel the attractive comfort of waking up next to the blonde and breathing her in while staring into her big, gloomy Belladonna eyes.

"Good morning."

Stevie's voice cracked but fulfilled its intention of catching the other's attention while she roamed the room.

"Morning."

Fiona radiated her supremely charming smile that wouldn't give away any of her feelings yet satisfy its addressee perfectly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Oh, you know. I'm not dead yet," she joked and vanished in the bathroom.

"Don't say that." Stevie called and got up to go after her.

"Oh, come on. You know I'm joking."

"Well, we don't joke about these kind of things."

Stevie tried to hide her vulnerability and the fact that even the slightest thought of Fiona's extinction tore her heart apart. She placed her hand on the other woman's shoulder while the invalid grabbed her toothbrush.

"Don't worry. You don't need to guard me 24/7 just because I have cancer."

Stevie hated when she said that word, as if it made it more real somehow.

"Why don't you go get ready in your bathroom and then we'll go out for breakfast somewhere in the French Quarter?"

The singer countered with a skeptical look before giving in.

"Fine," she sighed. "I'll be back."

* * *

Stevie entered Fiona's room an hour later in what surprisingly were non-costume clothes. Even though she was technically healthy, she felt unusually weary and decided to go for something more casual. Makeup had felt abundant, too, just like doing her hair had, so she'd pinned it up with one of her favorite clips.

She was surprised to find no one in the Supreme's room and the bathroom closed. As soon as she approached the door, she could hear a silent weeping that immediately gave her chills.

"Fi?"

She opened the door carefully, only to find the witch bent over the sink, her hand clutching her hair.

" _Don't_ look at me."

The Supreme screamed and Stevie didn't have to look to see tears streaming down her face.

"Sweetie, what's wrong?"

The singer ignored Fiona's request, stepped closer and used her left hand to turn the ill witch's face away from the mirror and towards her. She instantly felt the cold trail of tears along with the heat of her cheeks and couldn't help but be overcome with an intense sadness herself.

"My hair…"

Fiona turned away in anger.

"I tried to brush it and half of it came off."

"The other half is still there!"

Stevie tried to say something to comfort the other but immediately became aware of how clumsy her statement had sounded.

"That's the problem."

Fiona said in a low voice.

"That's worse than seeing it all gone. I'm Fiona Goode. I either go all the way or not at all. In-betweens constitute more weakness than a sheer loss does."

"Have you tried wearing a wig?" Stevie suggested cautiously, her sole intention to make her friend feel better in any way.

"It's not working!"

Fiona screamed and threw her brush across the room.

"Nothing is working."

Her voice turned from harsh to fragile and her eyes filled with tears once again. She soon lost her upright position and had to brace on her bathtub to keep herself from dropping to the floor.

Not knowing what else to do, Stevie instinctively rushed to kneel in front of the blonde, grabbed one of her hands and squeezed them tightly.

"When I visited New Orleans a few years ago, I stumbled across an art gallery with works by a variety of artists," she started, trying to maintain a calm and hopeful voice while also sounding powerful enough to keep the Supreme's attention.

"I spotted a sign saying there was an 'extended exhibition' in a shed in the back so I decided to check that one out as well. While making my way through the gallery, I noticed a couple of paintings of a 'man' with a rabbit head who wore a black suit. The single painting I remember best is the one that portrayed the rabbit man in the black suit from behind so you could only see his back and his rabbit ears. He was holding a cane in his left hand and three red balloons in his right. He looked out into the ocean while the sun was setting and three birds were flying in the sky."

Fiona had stopped crying by now and listened to Stevie carefully, unbothered by the amount of tears in her eyes that blurred her vision.

"Once I got to the extended exhibition in the shed in the back, I found an artist sitting there, painting. He started talking to me and we continued our small talk as I adored all of the magnificent pieces of art. At one point I found out that he was, in fact, the artist of the rabbit man paintings, so I decided to ask him about their meaning. Without hesitation, he told me that the man in the suit was him and that the three balloons represented his children. The rabbit ears and the cane symbolized that you always have to keep your sense of humor, even if you have bad knees—more generally put, even if you're broken or ill."

Stevie then looked up to face Fiona and stared directly into her eyes, which both witches perceived as brutally empowering yet incredibly scary in this moment of vulnerability.

"Now imagine yourself as the man with rabbit ears and the people and things that drive you as the red balloons. Your cancer may be your bad knees, but I am your cane."

The abundant water in Fiona's eyes began tumbling down her face. For a moment, the two women merely stared at each other's eyes so intensely that the idea of letting go of the glimpse seemed impossible.

Overwhelmed with hope and deeply choked up with emotion, Fiona couldn't bear to manage a _thank you_ or anything remotely appropriate.

"Why are you doing this?" She finally said, looking down.

Stevie let go of the Supreme's hand, left her kneeling position and took a few steps away from the bathtub.

"I mean, all of it. Why-"

Almost offended by Fiona's questioning, the singer cut her off and responded with a raised and almost angry voice.

"Because I love you. _I love you_ , Fiona."

The singer's eyes filled with tears while the Supreme just stared at her. The latter was filled an ambiguous mixture of feelings: on the one hand, she felt pure happiness over the unbelievable fact that Stevie Nicks should reciprocate her feelings and on the other hand, she feared the consequences of hearing her say these words out loud.

"I know you're the Supreme. You're Fiona Goode and you say you can't love anyone. But I don't believe you. I know magic when I feel it and when you kissed me…"

She paused to catch herself but before she could continue, Fiona positioned herself in front of her and looked at her seductively.

"What happened when I kissed you?" She teased.

Captivated by the extraordinary glimmer in her opponent's eyes, Stevie's tears stopped and all of her emotions seemed to be on hold.

Before any more could be said, Fiona harshly grabbed the back of Stevie's head and used it to pull her closer so that the two women's lips collided immediately.

TBC


	11. Think About It

**Chapter 11 — Think About It**

Stevie used both of her hands to hold the sick witch's face closer to hers and they entered into a passionate fight of high and low tide, alternating between quick, soft touches and violent tongue-wrestling.

Fiona could feel a wave of energy that almost resembled youth, drowning out all of her plaguing insecurities.

Their lips parted for a few seconds, almost touching, enabling the women to stare into each other's eyes dreamily.

Stevie breathed out heavily. She could feel the Supreme's lips slowly conquering hers again, quickly followed by Fiona's hand wandering down her stomach and over her panties.

Feeling immediate teasing pleasure, Stevie moaned and leaned back to brace herself on the sink. As she threw her head back, she could feel big, wet kisses being planted first on her neck and then down her collarbones. She then grabbed the other's face to taste her tongue once more.

Fiona kept her hand on Stevie's crotch and proceeded to wander under her skirt, not hesitant to slide it in her panties. Driven by the need to feel Stevie's desire, she let her fingers glide around her nub once or twice before entering her with two fingers, thrusting with force.

"Fuck!" Stevie cried and clutched her fingers around the edge of the sink.

During a short moment of vague clarity, she grabbed Fiona's busy arm and pulled her chin up.

"Let's move to the bed. Much more comfortable. After all, I'm two years older than you."

Taking the Supreme's hand, the singer dragged her into the big, dim room, their bodies' shapes swallowed by the darkness.

* * *

The first thing she felt when her eyes lifted their cover the next morning were Fiona's soft fingers trailing on her skin and her sharp nails circling on her shoulder. Without saying a word, she grabbed the Supreme's hand with her own and placed it on her cheek, enjoying the warm comfort it gave. For a second, flashbacks of the night before came into her mind, the other witch's intense movements driven by her desire; she still remembered the fire she saw in her eyes and the intense feeling of relief her body felt when she came. Lying next to her now still felt a little like a dream and she herself felt almost like a child—so incredibly happy finding Fiona's body next to hers that the mere knowledge of it caused her stomach to be filled with an all-consuming feeling of nausea. If she thought about it, she hadn't felt that way since Lindsey, and honestly, she hadn't thought she'd ever feel that way again. Yet she was acutely aware of the ephemerality of the moment; she could remember clearly the desperation in her lover's eyes when she'd found her in the bathroom the night before.

The white witch could feel the other woman sit up as the heat of her body suddenly vanished. She turned her head towards her and, seeing the concerned look in her eyes, sat up herself.

"What's wrong?"

"You love me." Fiona said quietly and then, more confidently, "you said you loved me last night."

After a moment of silence, Stevie answered "Yes. Of course I love you."

"And you don't want me to die, right? I mean, I might not make it until ninety, but a few more years wouldn't hurt, right? We could spend our summers in Italy and our winters in France, walking hand in hand on the Champs Elysées and strolling through every Christmas market we can find."

Stevie smiled with a hint of internal sadness as she realized how unrealistic a future like this was. "Yes. That would be very nice."

"You don't want me to die. I don't wanna die. Well, so, I might have a solution to our little dilemma." The witch's word flowed reluctantly from her mouth.

"This Coven has seen some powerful witches in the past. But none of them as powerful as the witches that are a part of it now. One of those girls has to be the new Supreme. And she's the little leech that has been sucking my strength from me gradually, taking pleasure in my suffering…" her voice became louder and angrier when, suddenly, she switched to a lighter tone.

"You know, I've never liked my daughter very much. Or any of those other amateurs for that matter."

Fiona turned to face Stevie directly and looked into her eyes, grinning almost viciously.

"How about we kill them all. Of course I could do it alone, but it would be much easier with your help. The strength the new Supreme is taking from me will flow back into my body, and a few extra witches won't hurt. I will buy us plane tickets and before you know it, we'll be sitting next to Fontana di Trevi and sip on your favorite wine."

Stevie couldn't reciprocate the smile and her body froze realizing that Fiona was capable of even thinking about killing all members of her Coven.

"Fi, you can't be serious. Those are real people—"

"Ah, we all gotta die at some point."

"You can't just kill those innocent witches!"

Fiona got up from the bed, seemingly angered.

"Innocent!" she laughed mockingly. "There is, by definition, no such thing as an innocent witch. We are no white witches jumping around in bouncy castles and performing magic tricks for kids' birthday parties. Not everyone has it as easy as you, darling." She lit a cigarette and turned away from the blonde.

"Well, you know, maybe your life would be easier, too, if you didn't constantly use black magic!"

"Psh, please." Fiona dismissed, "I was born with a dark soul. If you could even call it a 'soul.' You know, I always thought loving someone meant standing by them and taking their side no matter what. I guess either that is not true or," she turned around, "you don't love me after all."

She looked at her dismissively while releasing smoke from her lungs.

Stevie got up from the bed, quickly threw on her skirt and her top, and grabbed her purse.

"You know what, I'm not here to listen to your accusations. Love is disagreeing and respecting the other's opinion, you know. But how could you know? You're Fiona Goode. You don't usually _love_ people. And maybe this is why." She pulled the door shut and found herself in the big, white hallway.

Overcome with sadness and disappointment, she slumped down the stairs. Shortly before arriving at the big front door, a voice stopped her.

"Stevie?" Cordelia stepped out of the kitchen.

"Hi!" The white witch got nervous immediately, feeling a sense of embarrassment from sneaking out of someone else's house this early in the morning. "I just—Fiona wasn't feeling well so I had to look after—"

"Spare me the details" Cordelia said in a judgmental tone that Stevie dismissed as she was too upset over her fight with Fiona.

"You know, I heard you talking. But actually it didn't take proof to know what my mother's next steps would be. Over the years, she has become quite predictable. Predictable in her unpredictability, I suppose. But you know, there's a conclusion you can easily draw from anyone who is greedy and selfish—that they will be ruthless." Cordelia took a sip of her coffee while Stevie just stood there, frozen, and unsure of what to say.

"So how is she planning to do it? A dagger, à la Shakespeare? Or a gun, real easy? Or does she want to take more of an Alfred Hitchcock approach?"

"I—I really don't—" The singer stammered.

"You know, I really thought you were better than this. You are a white witch, after all. My mother, on the other hand, is a stone-cold bitch."

"Don't you dare talk about her that way." Stevie responded almost before Cordelia could finish her sentence, feeling anger well up inside of her.

"I know your mother has made mistakes but…"

"Oh please, don't you try and justify her reckless actions."

Stevie remained quiet for a few seconds before calmly, but seriously, addressing the other witch again.

"Yes, it's true, I'm a white witch. But I am a white witch in love." She suddenly seemed fragile and scared, despite her efforts to seem strong and reassured. "And I'm scared that my need to do the right thing is overruled by the conditional love I have for your mother."

"So you're telling me that you will just let her kill us or, even worse, help her do it?"

"No." She answered with a distinct voice. "No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying that illness can have grave effects on your mind. I'm sure she wasn't serious… Listen, give us some time. Let me talk to her again tomorrow. Just, please. I know that your logical conclusion is to kill her before she kills you, but now I'm standing between your desire to kill her and her death. I'm not saying I'm okay with her wanting to kill you—I'm saying I won't let you kill her. I may be a white witch but don't underestimate me when it comes to protecting the people I love."

Without noticing it, Stevie had walked quite a few steps towards Cordelia, being closer to her face than she would have liked. She looked at her in confusion for a second before turning around and walking back up the stairs.

"So don't even try to pull any shit on us."

* * *

Almost out of breath from the early morning, the little sleep, and rushing up the stairs, Stevie had to rest her head against the door when she stepped back into Fiona's room.

"Forgot something?" Fiona said, insecure because of Stevie's return yet unable to ask her question without a hint of condescension.

"Listen. Let's make a deal. You'll go back to chemo therapy for three weeks. Like, you actually have to go. Not like you did before, going whenever you pleased and missing most of your sessions. If you don't feel any improvement within that time frame, we'll kill them. All of them. And I won't stand in your way."

Fiona raised her eyebrow, contemplating whether she should keep up her tough attitude and ridicule her lover's suggestion or give in. The weakness her illness had spread throughout her body forced her to do the latter.

"Fine." She uttered, "Deal. But only if I get to wake up next to you every day during those three weeks. You know, so I don't suffer alone. You will have to endure all of my moods and the occasional vomiting with me. That's what you do for the person you love, right?" she teased and walked over to grab Stevie's hips.

"Right," the singer answered, smiling with hidden insecurity, and allowed the other to place a kiss on her lips. "That and more," she whispered, almost inaudibly.

TBC


	12. After the Glitter Fades

**Chapter 12** — **After the Glitter Fades**

One of Fiona Goode's most consuming character traits was pride. Just another reason she hated chemo, knowing the others would see her weak and wired up; machines that were supposed to supply her with life sucking it out of her; a constant reminder that her body could not survive on its own for very much longer. What happened to the athletic, strong, youthful body of a woman in her twenties that everyone used to admire? The one that was able to run five miles every day and go to three frat parties a weekend?

Even if she hated to admit it, she had noticed a slight improvement within the last few days. It had been exactly a week since she agreed to go back to chemo for three weeks before they would kill all of the so-called witches that currently lived in her house.

It seemed strange to her that she felt anything at all, remembering her previous experiences with chemo as blatant disappointments. Maybe it was young love that aided in the process, or maybe this was just a euphoric, hopeful height before the next, possibly deadly, low. She threw her head back and sighed audibly, not caring about the other patient's or even doctor's opinion of her. She opened her eyes slightly when she heard a knock on the door, though they sprang wide open when she spotted Stevie on the other side.

"What are you doing here?!" she tried to cover her wires with the blanket, "I told you I don't want you to see me like this!"

"You'd do the same for me," she entered the room without showing any remorse, "plus—I've seen you looking worse." She joked and planted a kiss on Fiona's forehead.

"How are you feeling?" she stroked her cheek. "Better?"

Fiona just looked at her with an annoyed look, hesitant to admit that the white witch's suggestion might have been a good one.

"What do you think?"

"You certainly _look_ a little better" Stevie didn't let her optimism be crushed by the Supreme's disdain.

"Well, maybe going back to chemo wasn't the worst thing I could've done," she finally admitted but didn't give the other the satisfaction of a smile.

"I knew I was right." Stevie grinned full of contentment.

"I didn't say that," Fiona hissed. "Are you okay? You look a little… sick."

"Oh, it's nothing, I think I just caught a little cold." She placed a plastic bag on the table next to Fiona.

"Anyways," the white witch continued, "I brought some food for later in case you're hungry, but I can understand if you're not feeling like eating. In that case, I will gladly eat it myself." She leaned on the armrest of Fiona's chair and took her hand in between hers.

"Thanks," the other said before letting her head fall back and her eyes close, trying to enjoy Stevie's touch rather than the fact that she'd have to endure chemo for another thirty minutes.

* * *

It had been thirteen days since she started chemo and Fiona did not remember the last time she had felt this good. Maybe it was being in love, having Stevie by her side, whatever it was—it felt like the hollow hope that others tried to convince her she should have would finally prove reasonable. She'd already thought about surprising Stevie with plane tickets, though she resolved it would be best to wait until after she would have completed her three weeks of chemo. Stevie would surely force her to continue chemo for a few more weeks, but with the progress she had been making, she didn't even mind. And anyways, Stevie was in bed with what seemed like a heavy cold right now, which Fiona blamed on the frequent surprise showers they'd had in New Orleans the last couple of weeks.

Fiona felt full of energy and hope, and it showed. Her skin felt softer, her face less wrinkly, and her limbs stronger. Even the simple task of preparing some soup—something she hadn't done in years, after all, letting others cook for you comes with being the Supreme. That day, however, she had the intense desire to give back, give back to the person without whom either she herself or all of the other people in this house would have been dead long ago.

While she was peeling potatoes, she heard loud footsteps racing down the stairs.

"Fiona!"

When she turned around, she spotted Zoe, horror written all over her face.

"Not so hasty. This house wasn't made for playful children," she scoffed.

"No. It's Stevie, she—I don't think she can breathe anymore, I—"

"What?!" Fiona froze.

"I tried to help her but—I think we need—"

"No!" Fiona screamed, dropped the peeler along with the half-skinned potato, and rushed up the stairs.

"I'll call an ambulance!" Zoe screamed after her.

"No, no—those rookies don't know anything about the human body!" As soon as she vanished upstairs, Zoe picked up the phone and dialed 911, despite the Supreme's mistrust of doctors.

Fiona flung open the door, encountering a heavy-breathing Stevie bracing herself on her left arm while clutching her right hand around her neck.

"What happened?!" Fiona rushed to the bed and helped her sit up, hoping it would help in any way. Being struck by the unexpected nature of the situation, Fiona was unable to think of any spell that could help the other witch. She even thought about Cordelia's pathetic herbal cures but concluded that none of those could alleviate Stevie's suffering.

Zoe appeared in the doorway.

"They should be here in five minutes."

Too distressed to be mad at the junior witch, Fiona admitted her own helplessness and felt a sense of relief knowing that other help will come.

"Open all of the windows and pack some clothes," she instructed and the other obliged.

With tears welling up in her eyes, Fiona tried to calm Stevie down, internally freaking out more with each second they had to wait for the ambulance.

TBC


	13. No One Left Standing in the Hall

_A/N: Thank you all for reading this far! The end is nigh! After this chapter, there will probably about two more. I hope you're still enjoying this story; I will do my best to update as soon as possible and, as always, I would greatly appreciate any kind of feedback you have._

 **Chapter 13: No One Left Standing in the Hall**

White had never been her color. Her color had always been black: some people argued it wasn't a color, but Fiona didn't care what it was; to her, black was _more_ than a color—a substance, visual element that directly corresponded to her soul. Just like the night, it comforted her with a simple yet significant presence, soothing yet assertive, mysterious.

But these walls were white, light—everything she wasn't, but they weren't quite Stevie, either. Stevie was light, but natural: moonlight in the dark night that was her; glowing, transferring her soft, warm rays to others; enchanting. But these walls, hospital walls, were nothing like her: they reeked of medicine, unfamiliar clothes and, most of all, death. Decay—the only thing not even a Supreme could stop. After all, resurgence has its limits, and so do her powers.

Fiona's black dress was a stark contrast to those walls; in fact, she couldn't feel more out of place, visually and emotionally. She didn't hate being in those halls because they were those of a hospital but because she longed to be in _Stevie's_ room, where her lover's beautiful face and the knowledge that she was okay would not even allow her to be preoccupied with the walls cold whiteness. She was okay, right? The doctors had taken her over an hour ago and Fiona had been waiting ever since—spiteful, how doctors never told you things. Right then she wished that she had a better-developed mind-reading competency. Maybe she should have paid more attention when those incapable, self-proclaimed coven-leaders tried to teach her something back in the day when death was never even an option in Fiona Goode's mind.

"Nicks?" a young, pale woman in scrubs called.

Fiona shot up from her seat, "Yes! Yes, I'm with her."

"Are you her sister?"

"I'm a very close... friend."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I can't give any information out to—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Fiona locked the doctor's eyes in hers, her glance reaching all molecules in her body, changing every essence to the Supreme's will.

"Sure," she changed to a smile, "let me lead you to her room."

"What was wrong with her?" she grabbed the woman's arm.

"Honestly, Miss…"

"Goode."

"…Right, Ms. Goode. Honestly, we're not sure—we've never seen anything like this before. There was no indication what could have caused this sudden, well, let's say attack. We had to give her a few different types of medication before she responded and we are not sure which was the one that alleviated her breathing problems. At one point we thought her lung had collapsed, but later those indicators had vanished. Then we thought that her organs had started failing and immediately got ready to bring her to the OR, but then it—it was like those symptoms reversed. Unfortunately, we are not—"

"Are you telling me you are too incompetent to help my—Stevie?!" Fiona interrupted.

"At this time we unfortunately do not know how to proceed, but we would like to keep her here, under observation."

"We'll see about that," Fiona mumbled and started walking into the direction she guessed Stevie's room was located. Lucky for her, the doctor followed and led her to a closed door of the same color as the walls—and probably everything else in this facility.

Before entering the room, she dismissed the doctor with a cool _thank you_ and waited until she vanished in the whiteness of the hall before pushing down the handle.

Halting for a brief second to consider whether knocking was appropriate, Fiona entered trying to make as little sound as possible. She felt the muscles in her body twitch and it was only then that she noticed how strong she had been feeling the whole day. Maybe her body simply forgot her illness—don't they say that whenever there's a situation of emergency, adrenaline provides strength? Whatever it was, just four weeks ago the Supreme would not have been able to stand up for more than thirty seconds, let alone be subjected to such physical and emotional stress.

"Steves?" she asked quietly as soon as Stevie's beautiful but pale face appeared behind the door.

Stevie opened her eyes slowly and glanced over to Fiona, almost immediately adding a weak smile.

"Hey," her smile brightened and she tried to sit up but stayed in the same position as any effort to make a movement proved futile.

"Stay," Fiona walked towards the bed, not knowing how to express all of her thoughts and feelings—fear, happiness, relief, worry—while being overwhelmed by the mere picture of her lover in that despicable hospital bed, surrounded and almost surmounted by cables and machines, white hospital walls and small monitor beeps.

Fiona took Stevie's hand in hers and used the right part of her body to sit down on the side of the bed.

After sitting there for a few seconds—both of them too filled with each other's presence to think of a word to say—Fiona finally broke the silence.

"What are you doing to me," tears suddenly started rolling down her face, speaking a different language but saying the same as the smile she wore to disguise their gravity.

"You can't just… _do_ stuff like that. _Scare_ me like that."

Stevie stayed silent and squeezed the Supreme's hand, hard, and let go when Fiona withdrew it to wipe the tears off her face.

"See, you're making a mess of me. This is why Supremes don't fall in love."

Both of them chuckled while the tears on Fiona's face were slowly turning into half-dried mascara stains.

"Now you know how I felt when I saw you weak." Stevie reclaimed the other's hand and focused her eyes on their two hands joined together.

"That's not the same." Fiona said quickly, simply for the sake of countering her.

"You know it is," Stevie's voice sounded calm and oddly peaceful.

Fiona enjoyed the silence for a moment, mostly because she dreaded asking questions and the possibility of hearing something she didn't want to hear.

"So," she finally started, "what happened exactly? The doctors sure weren't competent or eloquent enough to tell me."

"Yeah, I mean, the doctors told me that they don't understand what had happened and that the only thing we could do was wait and see."

"But I don't _understand_. You were _fine_ just a week ago. Whatever is happening, it's nothing… human. Because those morons sure don't know what's going on."

"You know, cases like this happen. Doctors are not omniscient, as hard as it is to understand for a witch, Ms. Supreme," Stevie tried to lighten the mood with a smirk but the impulse failed to lift the tension off of Fiona's preoccupied, grim face.

"You're lying," she blurted out, suddenly determined and sure of herself. "I know you, and you're lying."

"Fi, why would I be lying?! I don't know—"

"Save it. What did you do?"

"I'm tired, please. I need to rest."

Stevie let her head fall back into the big, fluffy, polka-dotted pillow and hoped that her closing her eyes would quiet the other witch. Only when she heard a drawer open did she open her eyes, alarmed.

She caught a glimpse of scissors, presumably out of the drawer, flying into Fiona's hands. The Supreme opened them quickly and held their blade close to her throat.

"Now tell me, won't you."

"Fiona, please. You can't do this," Stevie tried to remain calm although she could feel small streaks of sudden, unshakeable fear creep into her bones.

"Watch me," the Supreme teased, her facial expression unmoved.

"Fine. _Fine_. Just give me the scissors."

"You start talking and I'll decide if it's good enough. Go ahead."

Stevie fell silent, intentionally, trying to sort her thoughts into words and phrases, rearranging and changing them, until she arrived at the conclusion that no matter what she would say or how she would say it, Fiona would be furious, maybe unforgivably.

"You know, this fear that you felt today—this fear of not knowing, this rollercoaster-fear of highs and lows, unexpected turns and glimpses of heaven and hell, butterflies in your stomach and deadly ice in your veins—that was only a _glimpse_ of what I have been feeling ever since I knew about your cancer," she swallowed to gather more strength to continue her speech.

"I was living while watching you die. You sure have a lot on your plate, but I love you, Fiona. And I know how much the mere thought of dying—not even death, but dying in itself—scares you. At times I wasn't sure whether it was the cancer or your resentment of decay that was killing you. Either way, I couldn't let it. I just couldn't."

When Stevie looked up she saw that, while listening intently, Fiona had lowered the scissors, which decreased their hostility and silently replaced some of the tension in Stevie's body with relief.

"What did you do," Fiona said in a low, angered and frightful voice, the mixture of those adding a certain kind of shakiness to it.

"First I did some research," Stevie started, "extensive research. Your long naps and sessions of chemo therapy provided me with time where my digging up old, unknown books would go unnoticed. After almost giving up, about four weeks ago I finally found a spell that would work, a spell that would free you from your illness, at least for a few months, or years."

Fiona was too tense to utter a word, her fingers trembling against her lips as she tried to contain her anger, fear, and confusion while listening in order not to miss anything important, and to finally solve the mystery—although the more she heard, the easier it was for her to guess what had happened to Stevie, and the less she wanted to hear it.

"What. Spell." Fiona finally cried out, not being able to hold in her emotions anymore, her anger over Stevie's actions becoming clearer. Her eyes were covered with a layer of tears that weren't read to fall, still held back by the tension and a confession that was yet to come.

"It was simple, really. A trade, you could say. You would get my health and I—" she hesitated.

"…would get my cancer." Fiona finished the sentence for her, saying the words almost inaudibly.

"Well, not your cancer directly—but as I have been giving you my life over the past few weeks, I have been starting to get filled with your—"

"Death," Fiona stared emptily at the bed's frame.

"Yes. And I'm guessing since it is death caused by magic, the doctors aren't able to determine a… 'natural' cause."

"So, you're saying," Fiona began, "that I have been getting better while not even noticing that you were getting worse? That I have been literally sucking the life out of you— _killing_ you?"

Her voice got louder, filled with the anger she had been trying to contain.

Stevie lowered her head and failed to answer, lacking words of explanation.

"What the _fuck_ were you thinking? Are you out of your mind?! Why would you think that I would want to live even one minute, one _second_ on this shabby, worthless, idiot-filled planet without you?"

"Fi—"

"No. _No_ , now _I'm_ talking. How can you be so _selfish_ to reverse this situation, to let _me_ watch _you_ die, to make _me_ the one being left and abandoned? You don't do this to people you love. You don't choose to _die_ on people you love."

Fiona could see silent tears rolling down Stevie's cheeks in the corner of her eyes, but rage overpowered her feelings of sadness, fear or sympathy.

"I can't do this. I can't _do_ this," the volume her voice was dulled by a new wave of tears making her choke up and tremble. "I can't believe you would… I can't."

Fiona Goode turned around decisively and, without looking back, headed out of the door, the sound of it falling into place coinciding with a faint voice from Stevie's room, calling her name.

TBC


	14. Touched by an Angel

**Chapter 14: Touched by an Angel**

The sun vanished from the earth and, before she realized it, Fiona Goode was surrounded by the dark dust of dawn and only the warmth released from the ground's worn-out cement reminded her of its bright presence. It didn't take long for her eyes to be enchanted by another such presence—the moon, ruler of the night, beamed its rays towards Fiona and into the night, out-lighting all neighboring stars.

The Supreme looked down suddenly; it was as if the moon's round face was looking at her guiltily, reminding her of the woman she loved, and each of the stars questions yet to be answered.

Was she wrong? Was she wrong in grieving, screaming, leaving?

Her mind knew that the only reason for Stevie's actions was that she loved Fiona, but the Supreme couldn't help but blame herself for the white witch's position—had she been less selfish, less self-pitying, less irrational, maybe Stevie wouldn't have seen this as the only possibility. After all, it was her, Fiona, who was supposed to lie in this ghostly hospital bed, being pumped with medicine and deprived of human contact.

This, Fiona reminded herself, was why she'd promised herself not to open up to love again: it makes people do irrational, selfless things, and that's not what witches, let alone Supremes, do. At least not the Supreme she had made of herself. But now it was too late—she could not unlove Stevie, and neither could she reverse the spell. After she'd left the hospital earlier that day, she had spent hours on her knees, the floor covered in books and her fingers covered in papercuts, desperate to find something— _anything_ —to reverse the spell. But Cordelia's worthless library had left her with nothing, and she knew if she'd spend another day searching for a solution, she might be too late. She knew what she had to do.

Her black heels made quiet but clear sounds as they traveled across the crooked pavement of the trail along the Mississippi River. Once she reached Chartres Street, the air filled with more voices, and Fiona quickened her pace and flung her hand in the air with a sense of newfound urgency, "Taxi, please!"

* * *

Fiona's discomfort grew at the sense of familiarity the sterile hospital walls evoked in her. She bit her teeth and continued the walk towards the door that belonged to Stevie, entering it without a second thought to avoid any form of hesitation that could cause her to turn around and run, fast.

She was taken aback by the presence of a nurse in the room, his misplacement in the situation apparent, even to him. He picked up a used tray next to Stevie's bed and made his way out of the room determinedly, greeting the Supreme only with a weak, sympathetic smile, which was left unreciprocated.

"You came back," Stevie uttered when she saw Fiona's lost and tired eyes.

"Stevie Nicks makes her grand finale and you think I'm not gonna be here for that?"

Fiona's attempt to lighten the mood proved futile as her voice trembled when she spoke and she failed to take control of the tears that immediately filled her eyes. She made her way over to the bed and rested her right hand on the tray next to the bed, too overwhelmed by a feeling of vulnerability to be ready for Stevie's touch.

"What made you decide to—"

Stevie was interrupted by Fiona's still trembling but, this time, more determined voice.

"Stronger," the Supreme uttered, replacing eye contact with a blank stare.

"You said you did this to make me stronger, healthier. To relieve me of my sickness," she exclaimed, followed by a preposterous laugh.

"But you know, you didn't quite think this through, little white witch."

Fiona tried to catch some of her tears that were getting ready to roll down her face and displayed a smile that added a light-hearted air to her words, only to make saying them bearable.

"Because," she took a step back, placed one hand on her hip and used the other to cover her mouth, her smile vanishing immediately. Her tears became more plentiful when she looked up to the ceiling and her voice cracked as she spoke.

"Because I will be weaker without you," she swallowed, "than I ever was with cancer. And Fiona Goode isn't that: weak, fragile, dependent. But you have made me that; you have made me want to _be_ that—because it was the only way I could love you. And now, you see, I understand why you did this. But what you failed to realize is that without you, I will be weaker than I have ever been. Living without you," she paused briefly, "is dying."

Fiona's eyes suddenly turned to Stevie and locked with hers. Stevie reached out her hand and, finally, Fiona gave in and took it. It was only then that she realized how much she'd missed the soft, familiar touch of the singer's skin; the relief they offered with their mere presence and the way both of their hands fit perfectly together—as if her hand fell into place, long lost but found at last.

The sight of their hands joined together released all of the tension and the tears Fiona had previously tried her hardest to keep inside, and as her body sunk on the chair next to the bed, her head rested against their hands, which were quickly stained with small streams of salty water.

Stevie's body was filled with intense grief—not for her own body but for Fiona. Seeing her like this was unbearable to the singer, which was why she had decided to go through with her plan in the first place. While her lover was sobbing next to her, she kept telling herself that this was what she'd wanted, and it was the right thing to do. Fiona would get through this, and she didn't care about herself—her body was merely a shell, a temporary medium for her soul, after all. Though, as hard as she tried to hold on to that thought, the weakness had crept through and then conquered her body, her soul pressed heavily under the numbing weight of vanishing strength.

"You know, and the worst thing," Fiona looked up when the piercing pain of sadness loosened its grip for a second, "the worst thing is that if it had been you from the beginning, if you had been the one with cancer, I—I don't know if I'd done the same."

Sobs overwhelmed her once again and she withdrew her hand from Stevie's, feeling undeserving of its warm touch.

"I love you, Stevie. And the fact that you did this is one of the reasons I love you so much. But I am not loveable. I know myself, I _know_ myself, and I know that I am selfish and scared and mortified— _god_ , am I _mortified_ —and I don't know—I don't know if I would, if I could have done the same."

Fiona had become so preoccupied with her speech that her tears had stopped coming. She looked up to Stevie, feeling hopelessly lost and caught between dark shadows, although she knew deep inside that it wasn't her who had the right to feel that way.

"I love you," Stevie cupped Fiona's face with her pale fingers, "And I know you love me just the same," she added with a weak smile.

Fiona met Stevie's gaze and as she stared into her infinity-eyes, she didn't need to hear further words to know what she wanted to say. Her eyes were filled with endless love—confusing, troubling, exhausting, intensely present love—but also with growing exhaustion, and a need to let go. In this very moment, Fiona hated that she knew Stevie so well because recognizing her weakness evoked an overpowering feeling of unbearable pain in the core of her body, urging more tears to fall.

Fiona took Stevie's hand and, along with her head, laid it on the white sheets she despised next to the woman she loved. It was only now that she felt a sudden wave of exhaustion trailing through her body. When she closed her eyes, the room filled with an intense, heavy silence that was accompanied only by silent, fading sobs.

* * *

The Supreme was awakened by a sudden, overwhelming, cold terror—maybe a bad dream, she thought, but she knew that witches don't have nightmares—they have premonitions.

Almost naturally, she looked up to the machine monitoring Stevie's heartbeat and hated herself for it—this felt so cliché, so real-life—what was she, a soap opera star? The numbers looked fine, a little below average, but fine—although a nagging and persistent discomfort made sure she sensed that it would not stay that way.

Fiona looked over to Stevie and, when she saw that her eyes were closed, she shook her arm softly—no response.

"Stevie," she whispered, shaking her with a little more urgency.

"Stevie, love," she tried again, her voice layered with rising panic. Immediately anxious, Fiona got up from her chair and, not knowing what else to do, rushed out into the hall, her head turning from one direction to the other, trying to spot anyone in a white coat, or even in scrubs.

Skipping any courtesies, Fiona grabbed the first white-coated arm she could find, pulling it into the direction of Stevie's room.

"You have to help me, my friend isn't responding and I—I don't know what to do,"

"Stay calm, ma'am," the doctor freed herself from the Supreme's grip. "Now, where is your friend located?"

Fiona pointed towards the door, fear paralyzing her. As the doctor took the lead, the witch followed, only to be greeted by a dulled, hectic beeping. It took her a moment to realize it originated in Stevie's room—even when she watched the doctor quicken her pace, fling open the door and rush to Stevie's bed; her eyes widen when she looked at the monitor—it felt like she herself was only a bystander, watching her surroundings in slow-motion, unattached—this couldn't be real, right?

She was thrown out of her trance when someone bumped into her from behind. The doctor she had declared incompetent just earlier this morning suddenly took up most of the space in the room, and it looked like she was communicating with the other one, though Fiona's ears shut out any sounds except for the dominating, disturbing, ever-quickening beeping.

"Do something!" She blurted out suddenly, stepping into the room. "Help her already! _Do_ something!"

Even though she hated it, tears started streaming down her face and fear-turned-rage made her voice coarse and load.

"I'm sorry, Miss… Goode, right? Ms. Nicks signed a document earlier today, explicitly stating that she didn't want any life-saving measures so that reanimation—"

"What?!" she interrupted the doctor, "are you fucking kidding me? She is _dying_ , so you are just going to let her die? Who the fuck are you to decide who gets to live and who doesn't!"

"Now, ma'am, please calm down," the doctor tried to push Fiona out of the room by coming closer, but the Supreme didn't move an inch.

"Don't you patronize me, you incompetent little moron. You—"

Her voice was cut by the deadening sound of a steady beep—no intervals, no rhythm, no inconsistencies—just the piercing certainty of a sound that represented unshakeable, absolute death.

Fiona's jaw dropped slowly, falling from shock and the need to absorb as much air as possible, and her hand covered her mouth almost automatically, unconsciously.

"No," she uttered quiet words of soft disbelief before rushing to Stevie's bed, "No!"

Fiona grabbed Stevie's face, feeling her still-warm skin under her hands.

"You can't just die on me like that, I wasn't ready yet!"

The doctors had retreated to the back of the room, silently watching. While she was catching her breath, Fiona halted for a moment. She let her eyes wander over Stevie's face, that perfect face she had woken up to so many times; she studied her closed, peaceful eyes, her cheeks that were less rosy than she was used to, and her curved lips that were parted by a small gap of nothingness, only air where breath was supposed to be.

She took a step back and realized that now, she was just a body, this wasn't Stevie anymore; soon her cheeks would be white and her limbs would be cold, turning her into a shell that used to be. A shell that used to be a living, breathing human being that had interacted with, lived for, impacted, and loved others. A link in the chain that was the world, _her_ world, gone.

As she stood there, alive, and seeing death before her, she also knew that it shouldn't have been Stevie lying there, it should have been her. Her body didn't belong here anymore.

TBC


	15. I Miss You

_**A/N**_

 _Thank you all so much for reading and commenting. I really enjoyed writing this fic and I'm sorry if it sometimes took me a little long to update. I also apologize for killing Stevie-I know that some of you really wanted both of them to stay alive but artistically, the journey of writing this story led me to this conclusion, so I had to go with it and I hope you understand. I would greatly appreciate any feedback you have left and hope you like this last chapter. I tried my best. Thanks again and much love to you all! It's been a pleasure writing for you. xx_

 **Chapter 15: I Miss You**

She hadn't set her alarm clock but she'd been waking up at the same time every day for the past week—eight o'clock, sharp. Her heart ached when she got up—a kind of pain she had started to get used to, as if it was a part of her, unchangeable and yet changing, sometimes hiding or disguising, changing forms and degrees, but always there. At times she felt that it had depleted her, the figure of Fiona Goode being nothing but that pain; a host for a necessary evil.

The first walk she took after getting out of bed was the one to her coffee machine; even after a few days, setting up a routine had provided her with a form of security, and small tasks to occupy her mind.

Fiona took her pot of steaming hot coffee, pulled back the curtains and positioned herself in front of her window. All of a sudden, she thought about Papa Legba, and she laughed out loud at the thought of her attempt to make a pact with him. She didn't need to die to go to hell, she was already living it.

She had been sure that Stevie would come to her in a dream, or be an overwhelming presence when she'd got back to her room in the Academy, but so far she hadn't felt a thing. The lack of signs started to scare her—was something wrong with her, did she miss something? Did she not love Stevie enough? Or did Stevie not love her enough to send a sign, anything, from wherever she was?

She soon concluded that it wasn't of any use to think about that now. After all, now it was just her, her pain and the guilt that she felt for being in her body, alive, and physically stronger than she had been in a long time. Her body was a constant reminder that she killed the one she loved, and that she didn't deserve this body.

Fiona took a sip from her coffee. The black brew's warmth, although it was fleeting, was a stark contrast to the cold she felt inside. She made an effort to turn her blank stare into active observing, being more present and attentive to the things around her, just like Stevie always advised her to do.

Some birds appeared, trailing through the sky clustered in a swarm, filling the blue canvass with life. She couldn't help but see Stevie in the birds: their black, shimmery feathers like ornaments; their presence ephemeral but powerful—art.

As they flew past the rising sun, Fiona noticed that warm rays of sunlight had started covering her arm. Squinting her eyes as they were hit by a sudden brightness, she found this new, additional source of warmth oddly comforting. It brought some life where there was death, some light where there was darkness—in that moment, it felt like the sun was trying to solace her with a hug, replacing the touch she lacked.

It was then that she realized that maybe, she shouldn't wait for some overpowering sign, some mumbo-jumbo myth of the dead. Maybe this was it: Stevie wasn't just a ghost _somewhere_ but a part of _everywhere_ —the smell of trees in spring, the breeze of air on a hot summer's day, the flower in a field of weeds. Her presence wasn't a grand, life-changing apparition but an every-day reminder that maybe, everything would be alright.

Fiona let her gaze wander farther over to the left, focusing it on the iron-wrought cupola of the Eiffel Tower, then letting it trail down to its feet, where she spotted two Lego-sized people, kissing.

"Paris," she whispered. "Just like we said."

THE END


End file.
